


Bleed Me Out

by antietamfalls



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Bonding, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, John Whump, M/M, Magical Realism, Soul Bond, Vampire Sherlock, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:01:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 87,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antietamfalls/pseuds/antietamfalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John isn’t exactly surprised to discover that Sherlock isn't human. His vampirism doesn't pose a problem, even when their relationship gradually grows into something more. That is, until a deadly revelation about John’s blood sends their lives spinning dangerously out of control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Epiphany

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [讓血盡枯（Bleed Me Out）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2391761) by [Morrey_Liu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morrey_Liu/pseuds/Morrey_Liu)



> This is probably best described as "angsty vampire fluff" (or maybe "fluffy vampire angst"?).

It was during the Second World War that the existence of vampires first entered mainstream awareness. A young army private, dirty and disheveled in the blood-soaked aftermath of the Normandy invasion, was photographed biting the neck of his dying comrade. It turned out the private was a vampire, and rather than allow his friends to perish in the forsaken sand he opted to turn as many as he could possibly manage before succumbing to his own grievous wounds.

The propaganda press in the allied nations lauded the action as an example of unerring bravery and compassion, and for a time public opinion seemed almost welcoming to the idea of vampires in their midst. Why not, when there existed a creature that could save their battle-worn sons from death? A number of vampires in the allied forces revealed themselves openly, and they were swiftly greeted as valuable assets and heroes. Vampires possessed faster reflexes, greater strength, and keener senses than most humans, and soon vampire-only platoons were wading into the most dangerous fighting in Europe.

After victory was declared in both Europe and the Pacific, public sentiment quickly changed for the worse. Known vampires returning home after the war were openly derided as monstrosities and perversions of humanity by traditionalist associations. Vampires were shunned and murdered out of fear they would wantonly devour or seduce the innocent.

Hundreds of years of mythological prejudice collided violently with reality; demonstrations and riots choked peaceful urban streets, and angry citizens called on the various governments of the free world to isolate them from the remainder of society. They decried vampires as communists, or child predators, or unacceptable dangers to any community in which they lived. The only real problem was recognizing them amongst normal humans - when their fangs were retracted, vampires looked identical to everyone else.

Things changed in the seventies when vampire rights became all the rage. Once the general population overcame their primordial fears, they exhibited a deep fascination with the species. Vampires were not undead, medical professionals explained in television interviews and magazine articles. They were simply a separate, if parasitic, variety of human that deserved the same basic rights as anyone else. Extra-sensitive to sunlight, yes, and violently allergic to silver, but not the monsters that folklore made them out to be.

Few vampires required enough life-sustaining blood from a single person at any given feeding session to kill them outright. They exhibited extraordinarily long life spans (well into the six hundred year range) and proved difficult to kill by traditional means, but when correct methods were applied they were as mortal as anyone else. Doctors tidily reduced vampirism to a mere medical condition, and one that could be managed quite successfully at that.

Governments soon passed laws regulating vampirism. Blood banks transformed into corporations overnight, harvesting blood for cash and selling it in established marketplaces. An illegal trade of alcohol and drug-imbued blood became a common scourge of the streets alongside the cocaine and heroin dealers.

Turning regular humans was strictly regulated as well; a clan that wished to expand endured a lengthy interview and adoption process amongst the terminally ill who wished to be transformed. Illegal turning or turning against someone's will was punishable by severe penalties. A delicate harmony emerged between the two species, neither one openly attempting to destroy the other. They coexisted in a distant, if wary, truce.

Most of the older families of Britain quietly revealed themselves as long-standing vampire clans. Vampire society, though a common target of wide speculation, remained shrouded in intense secrecy. The old guard of vampire leadership chose to maintain the customs of the past, even as rumors swirled endlessly about what they did behind closed doors.

Some humans still regarded them with fear and apprehension, declaring them devil-worshippers or practitioners of magic. No one quite knew for sure. Vampires went to great lengths to avoid unnecessary contact with humans, usually spending their lives within the confines of their clan households. Some of the younger ones, however, opted to venture amongst the humans and build a life of their own.

And so, it hadn't come as much of a shock when, one month into their flatshare, Sherlock revealed to John that both he and his brother Mycroft were vampires.

John took it in stride, considering that he had been unknowingly living with an imbiber of human blood. More than anything, it was reassuring; at least there was a reasonable explanation for Sherlock's atrocious lack of eating or sleeping regularly.

When questioned why Sherlock hadn't told him straight off, the detective admitted that he had wanted to wait until he knew for sure that John was trustworthy. Too many people were still prejudiced against vampires. John felt pleased at that, knowing he had been elevated to a rank known only by a select few in Sherlock's life. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson knew as well, apparently, making it a rather small club, indeed.

Life barely changed after the revelation. Store-bought bags of blood now chilled in their refrigerator next to the various fingers and other body parts. John experienced one brief moment of alarm that the human bits weren't being used for strictly scientific purposes, but Sherlock was quick to assure him that dead humans were just as unappetizing to vampires as anyone else. Sherlock's lack of sleep no longer bothered John, as it seemed vampires required as little as two or three hours' rest in a forty-eight hour period. They continued solving murders and other mysteries much as they had before. John never spent much time musing on Sherlock's status.

 

\---

 

In fact, the only drastic change occurred almost a year and a half into their association when, after a lengthy and overly-dramatic process, John finally surrendered to the natural progression of his relationship with Sherlock.

Getting there wasn’t easy. Things advanced in fits and starts, despite John's self-imposed denial regarding the matter.

The first hint that something might be off arose when John noticed that he often preferred spending time with Sherlock rather than the women he was dating. The women were, to be fair, often funny and smart and quite easy on the eyes. But, whenever a text from Sherlock chimed on his phone – at abnormal and inconvenient hours, usually – asking for John’s accompaniment in some hazardous errand, a thrill of excitement shot up his spine and he was out the door in minutes.

After his fifth forgotten date (thanks to a rather complex array of serial murders that lit Sherlock with unprecedented excitement, so of _course_ John couldn’t miss out on it) and the realization that he’d been dumped three times in as many weeks, the issue forced itself and John could no longer pretend he wasn’t biased towards his flatmate. It was easy enough to dismiss as an addiction to adrenaline and risky behavior, though, or simply a normal symptom of a close friendship. His dating life slowed, if only to save himself the extra headache of apologizing for his oversights on an almost daily basis.

Then it was the subtler things: the extra unnecessary second of eye contact that sent an odd sensation through John’s body, how every casual brush stood out like a beacon for his attention, or the way they unthinkingly leaned toward or hovered near one another. John rationalized it away as tiredness or overexcitement, although the incidents happened with disturbing and increasing frequency.

Another milestone emerged the night John preemptively shot a suspect in the leg simply because he hinted at a desire to harm Sherlock. Scotland Yard undoubtedly knew exactly who had caused the man's injury, although Lestrade had done an exemplary job of keeping things quiet. Afterward, John spent an uneasy half hour pacing between the patrol cars trying to decipher why the man’s empty threats had flustered him so badly. He reluctantly concluded it was indisputable evidence of a growing protectiveness he felt toward Sherlock, an instinct proven to be disconcertingly powerful. One that he obviously needed to get under control, as well, or else he would end up shooting half their acquaintances.

It didn't help that most people they met automatically assumed they were already a couple. The outside pressure created a knee-jerk defensiveness in John and significantly delayed any sort of useful self-reflection. His responses became a rote script, ready for recitation at a second’s notice. He brushed off the insinuations as water droplets from his coat, carefully rejecting the idea as preposterous.

But when John was alone with Sherlock, during slow moments in cases as they wandered through London or late evenings in 221B, the lingering tension between them itched in the back of his mind. It was an unspoken magnetism buried by soft glances and diverting humor. A distance never breached, but ever-present and unsettling as a cliff edge underneath John's feet. On some evenings Sherlock would watch him with those impossibly pale eyes, mouth curving downward into a calculating frown as if John were the living embodiment of a baffling chemistry problem. He looked as if he was about to say something, the room stifled by an air of anticipation desperate to be broken by his words. 

He never said anything, in those moments. John guessed that whatever was waiting to come out would have been a surprise to them both.

The truth of John’s feelings toward Sherlock fell into place like a cascading row of dominoes. He caught himself staring at the detective’s hands as he delicately poured caustic liquids between beakers for use in his experiments. At crime scenes, John was consistently distracted by the graceful lines of Sherlock in his great coat as he berated witnesses and policemen alike. After several weeks of lost sleep and anxious over-analysis, John mentally acknowledged his attraction to his flatmate. It took a bit longer before he was ready to actively re-examine his sexual identity.

The night he finally knew - _really_ knew - was due, in part, to the failure of the detectives of Scotland Yard. That evening, Lestrade had called them to the scene of a suspected gang-related murder.

Sherlock had run off ahead by himself, as he was wont to do when overly excited, leaving John behind with Lestrade. Not feeling up to wandering the dark streets in the slim hope that he would happen across the maniac detective, John waited at the scene of the crime while the forensics crew and patrol officers slowly caught up with Sherlock's lightning-quick train of deduction. A dozen unanswered texts and an hour later, they realized he had headed to the wharf several streets away.

John was remarking to Lestrade that he hoped Sherlock wouldn't contract another bout of hypothermia by falling into the river again when the D.I.'s radio crackled to life. What followed was the worst thing John could ever recall hearing in his life.

"Suspects apprehended..." an officer reported through a garbled electronic whine punctuated by choppy static. "Requesting ambulance for two casualties. One officer with minor facial lacerations. Civilian resource reported deceased."

Numbness crept through John as he and Lestrade stared at one another. Sherlock was a vampire, and wounds that would kill normal humans were most often nonfatal to his kind. Surely, it looked worse than it appeared?

"Repeat that, please. Are you sure civilian is deceased?" Lestrade asked into the radio.

"Without a doubt, sir," the officer replied. "Caught a silver knife through the heart. Did you know he was a vampire?"

With that confirmation, John’s world fractured. Impossibly so.

The race to the scene was a blur as Lestrade drove, all the while attempting to console John with vacant words.

It was useless. John had seen friends and fellow soldiers killed in front of him in Afghanistan. He'd seen his own family break apart from substance abuse. In comparison, those events were trifling matters. Without realizing it, a single improbable person had become the stabilizing force of his universe. He didn’t cry, or even shout, but sat in silent quivering fear as the weight of it tried fruitlessly to sink in. It was the longest and most terrifying drive of his life.

So, naturally, John was shocked beyond imagining to find Sherlock alive and watching the clean-up of the scene with impassive boredom when they arrived at the riverside. A younger officer had misreported the identities of the casualties. The dead person was, in fact, a vampire - but they were simply a civilian that wandered too close to the standoff. The only similar feature was his long coat.

Still, John's earlier panic was slow to recede. He checked Sherlock for injury with tense efficiency, brushing along his body while the detective stood, mystified, in impatient compliance. Once convinced that the vampire was sufficiently unharmed, John sat on the curb next to him, shaking from relief.

"What's the matter?" Sherlock asked, brow creasing in rare concern.

John stared back with what was surely a traumatized expression. He was riding high on the fear of the moment, utter terror fresh in his veins. It was crystal clear. There was only one diagnosis. Amidst the flashing emergency lights and criminal corpses cooling nearby, John finally accepted what was happening to him.

"I'm in love with you," he told Sherlock with awed revelation. The words were strangely easy, like slipping on a well-worn pair of gloves.

Sherlock watched him motionlessly for a long moment, uncertain how to react. He narrowed his eyes as if trying to deduce what manner of alien creature sat before him. He then blinked a few times, gaze shifting subtly as he intensely studied John's face. And then, to John's infinite surprise, Sherlock took his hand.

"I love you, as well, John," Sherlock replied in a brittle voice, low and achingly honest.

They said no more, only sitting and waiting for Scotland Yard to wrap up the scene. The avoidance was tense and slightly awkward for the next hour as they answered questions for Lestrade’s team. Sherlock barely looked at him, and John began to wonder whether he had imagined the entire exchange.

Soon, though, the adrenaline faded and the surreal scene gave way to the privacy of their flat. Sherlock quickly made it _very_ clear that John hadn't been hallucinating. Admittedly, being shoved against the wall and desperately kissed by the only consulting detective in the world wasn't the worst way to end such a stressful evening.

Surprisingly, it was Sherlock's idea that they attempt a formal relationship. John suspected Sherlock simply saw it as a way to secure exclusive access and prevent him from dating anyone else. He was remarkably adamant, though, and it only required two days of hesitant introspection before John agreed to move forward.

It was slow, and new, and John was more than happy to take all the time in world, if need be. Sherlock held some alarmingly antiquated notions about relationships, which required several patient discussions to head off any potentially disastrous temptations to turn to the internet for advice.

Sherlock seemed unsure yet pleased with John's initial tentative tries at physical affection during their first week. John was mindful to slowly increase his overtures to help Sherlock adjust to the change in their relationship. He didn’t seem to quite know what was allowed, now. After a few days, Sherlock felt comfortable enough to initiate his own hugs and grabs. Every time the detective sought him out, a small thrill of affection warmed John's chest.

John waited for that feeling of regret to surface: the one he'd often felt after asking a woman out and realizing the fiction in his head was far more alluring than actually dating her. But there was none of that. No mental warning flags, no wishing to go back to the way things had been. On the contrary - everything seemed _right_ , for once.

It was, quite simply, the best thing that had ever happened to him.

 

\---

 

Even then, John never thought about the ramifications of Sherlock's vampirism until, one week into their relationship, he informed a very unsurprised Lestrade of their new status and received a mild joke about Sherlock probably wanting to drink his blood now.

During the entire cab ride back to the flat, as Sherlock ranted about the appalling procedures used by the Yard, John dwelled on the potential vampirism problem. Would Sherlock want to drink his blood? How old was Sherlock, anyway? They never really discussed his state after that first initial conversation. John never saw him interact with other vampires besides Mycroft, and he suspected Sherlock was either purposefully uninvolved or on poor terms with the rest of the vampire community. Both, probably.

Upon entering their flat, John shed his coat and sank heavily onto the couch. He watched Sherlock pace between their armchairs, still on a high from the day's events.

"Sherlock," John said finally, trying to gain his attention. "I think we should talk."

"-but obviously it was the _wrong_ brand of sanitizer! I have no idea what the forensics team was thinking," Sherlock concluded, waving his arms to emphasize the point. He paused a moment, then snapped his head towards John. "Did you say something?"

"Yes, I said I think we should talk," John reiterated. "About... um. Well. About your vampirism."

Even to John's ears, it sounded bad. As if he was asking after some intensely private chronic illness. Sherlock shifted, growing defensive. "What about it? Are you upset by it now, John?"

"No, it's fine. I just think we should clarify a few things. I have some questions."

The detective paced a few more steps, frowning. Was it rude to ask about this sort of thing? John had no idea what vampire etiquette might entail. Sherlock certainly never seemed eager to discuss it.

"For one, how old are you?" John began. "You're not actually in your thirties, yeah?"

Sherlock sat down in his armchair. "One hundred and fifty-seven."

God, and John still thought of himself as the adult in the room. His eyebrows rose in shock as he attempted to absorb the fact that he was involved with someone more than one hundred and twenty years older than himself. If that wasn't cradle-robbing, he didn't know what qualified.

"And... how did you turn, exactly?"

"I don't see how that's relevant," Sherlock retorted dismissively, folding his arms.

"Don't start that," John said in a warning tone. "It's important to me to know these things. If you don't want to talk about it, fine, but don't belittle its relevance."

"Then I don't want to talk about it."

"Fine. Good." John wrapped a hand uncomfortably over the side of the couch, flexing it automatically.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "There's more you want to ask, John. Don't think I can't see it there. _Lurking_."

John wasn't sure what would and wouldn't be offensive to Sherlock's vampire sensibilities. Then he remembered that Sherlock didn't even bother submitting himself to human sensibilities.

"Spit it out. You're thinking far too strenuously," Sherlock complained.

"It's just something Lestrade mentioned in passing. I wasn't sure... um. I don't know how vampire relationships are supposed to work, so if there's anything you think might be relevant... that would be helpful. I think."

Sherlock nodded as if he understood. "You're concerned about the blood thing."

"Yeah. The 'blood thing'." John scratched the back of his head. "Do you ever drink directly from humans?"

"If I wanted fresh human blood, I only need go to one of those disturbing fetish clubs. But I don't particularly enjoy feeding from strangers. I tried enough of that back in the old days."

"So, you don't. Anymore."

"Why are you asking, John? Would that constitute a form of cheating?"

"I suppose. No. Maybe, though." He raised his eyebrows inquisitively. "If you wanted fresh blood, would you want mine?"

Sherlock looked askance at him, surprise in his features. "You would allow that?"

"Would it be meaningful?"

Setting his jaw, Sherlock's eyes focused in a way that John had only seen just prior to feeding from one of his blood bags in the evening. "Yes, John, that would be very meaningful. Human-vampire relationships are more widespread now than in the past, of course, but I can see why it is not common knowledge. If consensual, feeding is considered a very intimate act and one of great trust. I hadn't anticipated mentioning it for several more weeks, at least."

John nodded slowly. They hadn't had sex yet. They hadn't even spent the night in the same bed. John knew Sherlock was rather unused to that sort of thing, and he himself was still adjusting to his newfound bisexuality. Truth be told, he had been fretting about how to progress with this side of their relationship beyond basic physical touching. Feeding seemed like a relatively safe first step in that direction.

John smiled. "Well. If you wanted to, then that's fine. I think I might be interested."

Sherlock stood in one smooth motion. John still didn't know whether that was a vampiric trait, or if Sherlock was simply that elegant. Mycroft never moved that way, but, then again, Mycroft rarely moved more than was absolutely necessary. If it was inherently vampiric, John could certainly understand the old wives' tales of vampires as seductive demons of the night.

He drew closer, and God, his eyes were intense. John identified it, with a minor amount of apprehension, as the laser focus of a predator approaching its targeted prey. He straightened against the back of the couch.

Sherlock stepped over the coffee table and proceeded to fluidly move into a straddling position on John's lap. His eyes were still unnaturally alert as he leaned inward, one hand caressing the side of John's neck. Their gazes met and Sherlock slid his other hand to the button at the top of John's shirt. At his touch, a prickling wave of interest washed through John, creeping heat developing in his lower abdomen.

Clearly enjoying the effect he was having on John, Sherlock smiled widely and provided a decent glimpse of his descended canines. Nothing John hadn't seen before, as a doctor, but somehow they seemed particularly long and sharp with the knowledge that they would soon be impaled in his neck.

"Relax," Sherlock told him in a low voice. John cleared his throat.

He felt the collar of his shirt pulled lower for ease of access. Sherlock's head bent inward, sniffing lightly above the densely-packed veins and arteries concealed by the skin of his neck.

"I can sense your heartbeat," Sherlock said slowly, close to his ear as if sharing a secret. He moved a hand to the other side of John's jaw, keeping his head still. “Don’t move.”

John shifted slightly under the intimate weight of Sherlock on his lap, ignoring the spreading tingle in his body and rising heart rate. Christ, if Sherlock kept on as he was, this might end in more than just feeding…

Sherlock's cool breath was on his neck. Two sharp points of pressure formed over his jugular, gradually increasing in intensity. Finally, John felt his skin break under Sherlock's fangs. His mouth closed in.

Suddenly, the fangs vanished as Sherlock pulled back in a movement far too rapid for any human. He whipped his head aside and violently spat the tiny amount of blood he’d drawn towards the floor in flecks of red. Sherlock turned back to John, expression completely aghast.

The abrupt reaction had shocked John, and he returned the stare. "What was that?"

"John," Sherlock said, horrified.

"What, is my blood not good enough?" He'd never seen a vampire react that way to blood and, frankly, he was a little insulted. John put a hand to his neck to test for bleeding. There was none, as expected. Vampire saliva contained a very strong coagulant.

Sherlock crawled off John's lap, settling adjacent to him on the couch. His previously seductive body language was replaced by cold, stiff movements.

"Are you going to tell me what happened?" John asked.

"This is very, _very_ important, John," Sherlock said, deadly serious. "Were you ill while in Afghanistan, ever?"

"Yeah, sure, yeah. Loads of the soldiers were, at one point or another. What's wrong with my blood?"

"I need you to think of specific incidents, and how you might have become sick."

John considered it for a moment. "I contracted malaria, about a year before I was shot. Not entirely common in that region, but we were camped at an outpost near some rather questionable water sources. Mosquitoes there probably got me."

Sherlock watched him with a strange intensity. "John, your blood is poisonous to my kind. You're fine, you're healthy, but I can't drink it."

"That seems... odd." John found himself feeling unaccountably disappointed.

"Yes, it is. It's very odd. This happens to very few people, but your natural resistances were augmented by your illness in Afghanistan. If it even was malaria. Which it probably was not."

"So what do we do?"

"Nothing. We do nothing," Sherlock replied in an uncharacteristically strained tone. "I won't be feeding from you, but otherwise everything is fine." 


	2. Disconnect

After that, Sherlock seemed on edge.

Shortly after the botched attempt to drink from John, he asked for several blood samples which John grudgingly provided for all sorts of strange experiments. Sherlock stopped complaining about the mounting downtime between cases, instead spending almost every hour glued to his lab equipment and remaining secluded in the flat.

John left him to his work. He knew Sherlock disliked disruption when he had a problem to solve.

Sherlock also asked him to sleep in the downstairs bedroom, which John thought was a pleasant development until he realized that Sherlock had no intention of joining him. The detective instead spent his waking evening hours running countless experiments in the cluttered kitchen. On the odd occasion that he required sleep, Sherlock would settle for a quick doze on the couch during the day.

And just like that, all the progress of their budding relationship stalled. It was as if they were frozen in time, waiting for some ambiguous indication that their life could reengage.

Sherlock swung from extreme clinginess to complete ignorance of John's existence within the space of an hour. He was distant and distracted – more so than usual – and increasingly fixated on analyzing the blood samples.

The signals confused John, and when questioned about his behavior Sherlock became angry and petulant. After the third argument that failed to extract any sort of useful information, John resigned to communicating his displeasure with baleful glares and befuddled expressions. It was no use, though; the detective remained meticulously absorbed in his tasks. Sherlock hadn’t acted so unbalanced since… well, since John first met him, when he was coming off decades of living and working alone.

Five days after the discovery of John's inedible blood, Sherlock finally admitted that he could do little else with the equipment he owned and needed to go to the lab at Bart's to continue his tests. He seemed extremely reluctant to leave John alone at home, until John informed him it was his professional medical opinion that Sherlock get some fresh air or he would be forcibly removed from the flat. Stereotypically reclusive as they were, even vampires needed to get outside once in a while.

Sherlock drew two vials of blood from John, asked him to stay inside, and departed with a promise to return in a few hours.

Sherlock's strange reactions had long since unnerved John, but he figured the detective was simply trying to find some way to return his blood to a normal level of palatability. He was frightfully dedicated to the task, and John wasn't sure whether he should be pleased at how much Sherlock wanted to be able to drink it or afraid at the possible underlying negative implications.

He was in the midst of thoroughly enjoying the absence of neurotic energy from the flat when John heard the door slam downstairs and slow and steady feet climb the staircase. John turned to greet Sherlock as he returned, but was instead confronted with the one and only Mycroft Holmes.

"Ah, hello!" John acknowledged half-heartedly, rising from his chair and setting his newspaper aside.

Mycroft, dressed in his usual three-piece suit and wielding his umbrella, smiled mechanically as he wandered in through the doorway. "Good afternoon, John.” He glanced around the sitting room with a look of barely concealed repugnance, as was typical when he confronted the systematic mess that occupied it.

John shifted his eyes, unsure. "Sherlock is at Bart's."

“Oh, I'm aware. I’ve kept a close eye on him, in fact. I thought I would drop by early for an opportunity to… chat."

John courteously motioned for him to sit. Mycroft wanted to talk alone? Under no circumstance could that be a good thing. "Tea?"

"No, thank you. I'm on a rather tight schedule." Mycroft took Sherlock's armchair, and John warily sat back down in his own. "You seem distracted, John," he observed.

"Oh.” John blinked a few times. “Rough week, you know."

Mycroft hummed curiously to himself and gained a pensive expression. “Yes, I imagine dating my brother would test the limits of one’s fortitude.”

"Don't tell me you've finally come to deliver the threatening overprotective brother speech," John said with guarded humor.

"On the contrary, if anyone required threatening it would undeniably be Sherlock."

John laughed briefly. "And why is that?"

"There's much I doubt he's told you about our family and lifestyle," Mycroft answered cryptically.

John shrugged. "His condition doesn't interfere, besides the occasional trip to the blood market. Sherlock doesn't involve himself in the vampire community, does he?"

"Hardly not. Some of the more prominent members disagree with his liberal choices and attitudes, unfortunately. He's still quite young."

"Young? You can't be much older than him, Mycroft."

"Three hundred and thirty-nine, actually. And just to be clear, asking after my age is considered incredibly rude," Mycroft informed him blandly.

"Oh. Sorry."

"Not to worry, John. I doubt you interact with many vampires beyond Sherlock."

"None, to my knowledge. Besides yourself and the occasional patient at the clinic." John shifted in his seat. "But you're involved, yeah? Isn't there some sort of secret vampire governing body?"

Mycroft tilted his head politely. "I'm not at liberty to discuss such things."

"Of course not," John said, rolling his eyes. “Why are you here, then, if not to suffer my curiosity?”

“As ever, I am concerned about my brother. He’s not been spotted out on the town. And neither have you, for that matter.”

John regarded him evenly. Despite Sherlock’s alarming behavior, a deep pull of loyalty bristled within him. Mycroft wanted inside information, and John would be damned if he was going to spill it. “We can’t exactly make a case materialize out of thin air, can we? Lestrade hasn’t called and the blog’s message box is quiet as the grave.”

Mycroft sat back a bit, but John could see he wasn’t quite convinced. He eyed John up and down. The action left him feeling unsettlingly exposed. “I suppose Sherlock has sufficient distraction to keep him occupied at home.”

A frown pulled at the edges of John’s mouth, but he resolutely remained quiet.

"I dare say, you seem unexpectedly healthy and energetic," Mycroft noted. "The first few weeks are usually the most difficult for humans involved with vampires."

"Why is that?" John asked apprehensively.

"In all the excitement, feeding usually occurs too often. Leaves the poor humans rather drained, if you'll pardon the expression. It takes time to find a balance." Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "My brother hasn't been feeding on you, though."

John couldn't help releasing a dejected sigh.

Genuine astonishment crossed Mycroft's face. "He's wanted to do so for quite some time. Hasn't got round to asking?"

"Not exactly," John said, supremely uncomfortable under the scrutiny. Something in the back of his mind prodded him once again to watch his words.

It was too late, however. He should have known that concealing information from a Holmes was a doomed pursuit. Mycroft studied him closely, deducing God-knows-what.

Fortunately, they were distracted at that moment by the downstairs door creaking open once more. There was a pause, a momentary shuffle, then the pounding of footsteps running up the stairs. 

The door to the flat banged open, and Sherlock stormed in with an anticipatory scowl. Somehow, he had known Mycroft was inside just by the look of the entryway of the building.

"What are you talking to him about, Mycroft?" Sherlock demanded.

"Oh, nothing in particular,” Mycroft said with casual impertinence, looking up from his seat. “John was simply describing your habits to me."

Sherlock's stare was that of finely sharpened daggers. Mycroft raised a single eyebrow. John glanced from one to the other, watching as some monumental intellectual battle waged silently between them. Somehow, he had revealed too much.

"Get out, Mycroft," Sherlock ordered, suddenly.

"Without discussing the reason for my visit?"

"I think you've discussed enough already. And I've told you, I don't care to work on any of your boring cases or attend any of those atrocious parties."

Mycroft stood, brow relaxing. With one last inquisitive look down at John, he tipped his head and left without another word.

Sherlock shed his coat, pulling out a stack of test results from an inside pocket. He walked to the table and slammed the pile down with excessive force. Frowning to himself, he sorted through the papers.

John glanced up from his chair, agitated by what he had seen. "What was that about? Sherlock, are you going to tell me what's happening?"

"It's not important. He's just being a nosy prat," Sherlock said quietly, not looking at John.

"That's obviously not true," John said in an exasperated tone. "You've been running about like a crazed baboon for nearly a week, now. You should tell me if there's a problem."

"There's no problem," Sherlock lied.

"Yes, there is!" John leaped from his seat. He came close and tugged Sherlock's arm, turning him. "You can't keep secrets, Sherlock. Not where I'm involved. You need to tell me."

"No, I don’t!" snapped Sherlock, finally giving John a direct glance. His eyes were blazing. "I can figure this out! I told you there was nothing wrong with you, and that was the truth. If you could _please_ leave me alone, I need to go over these lab results."

"You don't trust me," John realized, pulling back. "Am I infectious? Can I hurt you by being near you? You need to tell me! I can help!"

"You can't, though!” he shouted, truly angry. “And no, I don't trust you with this. I don't trust anyone. Mycroft is already suspicious. Just let me _work_ , for God's sake!"

John, expression thunderous, stormed upstairs to his room without another word.

The door to his old bedroom was closed, and a rush of cold air hit John when he forced it open. Slamming it shut behind him, he stood in a fuming rage against the painted wood. The room was dark and quite unpleasant. John picked up one of the pillows from the bed and threw it hard onto the floor, hating how it hit the ground with so little sound. It was juvenile, but he didn’t particularly care.

He collapsed in a huff onto his abandoned bed, curling up in a ball of tension against the cold fabric of the duvet and allowing  surges of anger wash through him. Better he isolate himself up here than be tempted to break something – or someone – downstairs.

As he lay stewing, John listened to the familiar frustrating sounds of Sherlock moving around downstairs. The high-pitched creak that indicated he was entering the kitchen. A resonant shuffle against wood signifying he was standing near the fireplace. Back and forth, back and forth; John could almost perfectly plot Sherlock’s route as he paced.

John shifted against the stiff bedclothes as his ire loosened, rolling onto his back. The shadowed lines of the ceiling seemed severe and unwelcoming. A judgmental division across the length of the room.

When had this place become so foreign? Sherlock barely even used the bedroom downstairs. He stored his most valuable personal affects under the bed and in the cupboard, but he rarely slept there. John was just another item that needed safe-keeping, apparently. A curio stowed away for preservation. Bloody vampire.

Maybe, said a small voice in the back of his mind, it was because he had thought of it as _their_ room.

The sounds from downstairs faded to quiet. John wondered what Sherlock was doing. It was almost unthinkable he’d leave the flat again after his nigh-hysterical displays from earlier.

An unmistakable creak from the foot of the staircase answered that question. John silently counted each step as Sherlock climbed, until the last.

The door cautiously cracked open, and Sherlock peeked in through the gap. John rose up expectantly as Sherlock pushed the door open all the way.

The edge of anger was gone from Sherlock’s face, but he appeared pained. The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled unevenly up to his elbows, hands lingering on the door. Slowly, he moved to sit on the bedside, pausing as if he didn't quite know what to say or do. The absence of his usual arrogant expression evaporated the scathing words forming on the tip of John’s tongue.

"You want me to trust in your methods," John offered finally, breaking the silence. He was careful to keep a neutral tone.

Sherlock nodded solemnly, hand resting on the duvet near John's leg. "This is important to me. More than important."

"You're frightening me."

"I know."

They watched each other. John knew the expression Sherlock wore. He wanted compliance, and would have it at any cost.

“You said you didn’t trust me,” John accused. Of the things said earlier, that was the one that hurt the most.

Sherlock frowned. “We both know that’s not true. It's not a matter of my mistrusting you, John."

"Then what is it?"

He didn't answer, simply watching John with those penetrating eyes. Sherlock was very good at keeping a blank face when he wanted to, and right now his features gave away nothing. He appeared dispassionate, if anything, and John loathed being on the receiving end of such a look.

A terrible thought suddenly struck John, low and off-guard. “Are we… are we still…?” he asked faintly.

He clamped his mouth shut, unable to say it.

Sherlock’s hand moved to meet John’s, reading him with practiced ease. “In the statistically unlikely event I wished to end our relationship, I would not be so indirect.”

John exhaled his relief. Why did things need to become so complicated now, of all times? Before Sherlock tried to drink his damned blood, John's biggest concern was acclimating to a partner of the same gender, species notwithstanding. Their tentative relationship had taken a back seat to this mess, and he desperately hoped it wouldn't be derailed too badly. Sherlock was still new to the concept. The circumstances were far from ideal. But, if Sherlock remained interested in proceeding, John was willing to do what was required to preserve it.

He trusted Sherlock. Completely.

"God help me," John sighed at last, sitting up. "All right. I won't ask any more questions."

“Thank you.” An expression of soft satisfaction settled on Sherlock’s face. His eyes scoured John as if checking that he was whole and accounted for. That intense gaze finally settled on his mouth.

John took the cue, reaching one hand up to bury into the dark curls above Sherlock’s ear. He leaned closer, disconcerted as ever by Sherlock’s lack of noticeable body heat. He wasn’t cold, exactly, but he didn’t seem to radiate any external warmth into his environment. Perhaps it was a trait that aided vampires in approaching humans unnoticed?

Sherlock’s hand slid into place on John’s right hip, fingers tunneling under the creases of his shirt. John read it not only as a gesture of reassurance for himself, but an act of seeking comfort by someone who so obviously needed it in return. Their struggles weighed as heavily on Sherlock as on John; the detective was simply more practiced at hiding it.

“You know you can tell me anything, right?” John asked, barely above a whisper.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock replied with succinct finality. His hand retracted from its place against his side, and John silently cursed himself. Those pale eyes regained some of the strain from earlier, a deep discord that spoke volumes about what Sherlock was actually experiencing inside that bottomless brain of his.

John didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to connect with so unreachable an entity. With a frail sigh, he relegated to pulling Sherlock toward him until their lips met in careful harmony. His other arm snaked around Sherlock’s back until he held him in a tight grip, inscribing his discontent and frustration onto the vampire’s mouth.

Sherlock, surprisingly, relaxed enough to respond in turn. He enveloped John in a matching embrace, a cautious motion riddled with self-control. With his naturally excessive strength, he could easily injure John if he wasn’t careful. Sherlock obviously wanted the contact, though, because he pushed into him until John’s back hit the duvet.

It was good – it was so damn good to have a little piece of his Sherlock back. The long-absent slide of that salacious mouth, brilliant and piercing all at once. John was still learning its form and preferences, but he would eventually have time to do all the dastardly things he wanted with it. Sherlock, the insufferable genius, was already close to mastering John, pulling soft noises from his throat with teasing efficiency.

As they melted against one another, John realized with dismay that this was nowhere as heated as that first night. That had been pent up passion and unrepentant want, and this… this was calculated. Remote and limited; merely a specter of reality. Sherlock wasn’t giving his all, his attention split elsewhere. Or perhaps he was intentionally diverting his focus, lest he accidentally become too engrossed in John.

True to expectation, Sherlock suddenly ceased all activity, pulling his mouth away from John’s. His breath came in shallow huffs, spreading in cool gusts over John’s skin that summoned waves of goose bumps.

“I must return to my work,” Sherlock confided, but his words were absent of their usual blunt indifference. He said it almost as an apology.

John let his fingers slip from Sherlock’s hair, knowing that this beautiful creature was once again drifting away from the moorings of his grasp. Or, perhaps, he’d never even had Sherlock at all, this time around. A passing mirage to alleviate John’s worries, but nothing more.

Sherlock sat up, retreating back onto his knees. A hard and impassive expression returned to his face.

John leaned up on one elbow, disappointment welling. Bereft of contact with Sherlock, he couldn’t help but avoid looking at him.

"Will you sleep downstairs?" Sherlock requested.

John raised an eyebrow, finally meeting his gaze. "Why should I?"

"I'd prefer you close."

Close, but not together. That was their way now, was it?

John sucked in a long-suffering breath. "Only if you have some blood tonight. You look parched."

Sherlock grudgingly nodded.

And so, John found himself doing exactly what the mad vampire wanted.

 

\---

 

Sherlock was appeased after that, but he remained remarkably jumpy the entire rest of the week. He responded to unexpected noises with disturbing intensity and regarded strangers with odd hostility. Lestrade dismissed him from two separate crime scenes because he appeared so agitated.

Sherlock was convinced that their surveillance had been tightened, and he swept the flat for bugs and cameras on a nightly basis. Clearly, the man was deeply concerned about something, and that worry bled into John. He kept his word, though, and didn't pry into the strange circumstances.

In the early hours of the morning, when Sherlock became inevitably frustrated with the results of his experiments, he began visiting the bedroom. He would quietly slide into bed behind John, who was unfailingly awakened, and wrap an arm close around him. John knew Sherlock didn't need the rest; it was quiet distress that drove him. His obvious affection for John would be endearing, under different circumstances.

Still, it took all the self control John possessed to not turn around and throttle the bloody man for putting them through this. He should've felt flattered and excited that Sherlock wanted to join him in bed. Instead, he was miserable. They would lie there for several silent hours, both knowing the other was awake, as their minds festered with unresolved worry. There was nothing to say, and John wasn't in the right state of mind to initiate anything more intimate.

He wondered how they'd survive as a couple, at this rate. Losing Sherlock was the absolute worst thing he could imagine, especially to something so frustratingly unclear. If they couldn't communicate, for whatever insane reason, things would swiftly deteriorate even more than they already had. The fragile, tenuous balance of their life together would unravel.

The wondering finally stopped roughly a week after Mycroft's visit.

It was late on Friday night, and they had just finished dinner (take-away for John, blood for Sherlock). Sherlock unerringly glanced out the window every fifteen minutes or so, until John tried to convince him to settle down to watch a Bond film.

"No," Sherlock said, turning away from the window. "We must go for a walk, John."

Already comfortably seated on the couch, John was in no mood to move any time in the near future. "Why?"

"Come with me."

The tense tone of Sherlock's voice was all he needed to hear.

They bundled up in coats and gloves to combat the chilly night. When Sherlock moved to tug his scarf around his neck, he abruptly stopped. He paused for a moment, considering, and instead wrapped the soft blue cloth around John. Once it was snug around John’s neck, his pale gaze studied the image and, satisfied, he nodded almost imperceptibly.

John wordlessly watched Sherlock turn and head down the stairs. Whatever was happening, it was worse than he had feared.

Outside on the pavement, the only other travelling figures were hurrying home without a second glance. Glowing light from the street-side windows and shops punctuated the deepening darkness of night settling over the city.

John felt a tug at his elbow as Sherlock linked arms. He looked up at the vampire, whose face remained determined as he led John north along Baker Street toward Regent's Park. A few taxis and other vehicles rumbled past, headlights summoning fluid versions of their shadows that twisted and contorted against the brick of the buildings before melting away again.

"Why are we out here?" John asked as they strolled.

Sherlock glanced at each passing car, observing them with a suspicious expression. "I don't want Mrs. Hudson to witness what's about to happen to us."

Despite himself, John smiled.

They crossed several streets until finally reaching the park. Sherlock slowed their pace, meandering lazily along the pavement as if they hadn't a concern in the world. They were baiting someone, John realized.

For fifteen minutes they walked in a slow looping pattern, until Sherlock abruptly snorted an annoyed breath. "Finally," he said. "We'll have company very soon."

John hadn't noticed anyone or anything out of the ordinary, but he took Sherlock's word on it.

They moved deeper into the park, which was mostly empty as closing hour approached. When they reached Clarence Bridge, Sherlock stopped them. “We’ll wait here.”

It was nearly full-dark and quite cold, and John’s patience was worn thin. He directed a pointed glare at Sherlock and stuffed his freezing hands into his coat pockets. “I expect you’ll explain yourself, now.”

Sherlock spun a few times, coat flaring, to take in the shadowed recesses of the surrounding area. He turned, at last, and imposed his full attention on John for the first time in what seemed like forever. John nearly buckled under the intensity, struggling to translate what he saw behind those calculating eyes. Was that – regret?

Whatever answer John expected, it did not include Sherlock drawing him into a tight hug. That's exactly what the detective did, holding him close and splaying both hands along John's back. "You've been so very patient,” Sherlock said, vibrating against him. “I'm sorry."

“Just… please, Sherlock,” John pleaded quietly into his shoulder, impatience replaced by raw concern.

The detective pulled back, not answering. He gazed at John for a few moments before pressing in for a kiss. Brief, and chaste.

A farewell.

John stood in confusion, worry spiraling out of control within him. What should he say? What _could_ he say? A knot of heat emerged in his throat, choked back only by sheer willpower. Gravity itself shifted, and John felt as if he were slipping down a  slope into a long, dark chasm. Below him lay the realm of irrevocable heartbreak. Whether he knew it or not, Sherlock was well on his way to permanently shattering the final pieces of John’s emotional well-being.

Sherlock, for his part, managed to perform a grand imitation of an unperturbed vampire. He nonchalantly adjusted the blue scarf around John’s neck so that it sat comfortably and straight. His gloved fingers faintly trembled where they touched John’s skin, though, and his relaxed face couldn’t hide the tension he concealed beneath. Not from John, who knew him so well.

Sherlock stiffened, suddenly, and his eyes shot upward to focus distantly over John’s shoulder. Firm instinct suppressed the wreckage of John’s emotions with reflexive efficiency at the sudden hint of a threat. Afghanistan and running with Sherlock had long since taught him to stow things that would only hinder his ability to survive.

He turned and saw five men casually approaching them along the park path, all well-dressed in expensive suits with unmistakable bulges indicating side arms hidden under their jackets. They wore no official badges or markings that John could see. The group stopped several feet away.

Sherlock moved in front of John and shifted into a defensive posture at their nearness. With his regal coat and spiteful expression, he looked positively lethal.

"Step aside, Holmes," said a dark-haired man who appeared to be their leader. He brushed aside the flap of his suit jacket to show the glinting grip of his handgun.

“You may gladly go fuck yourself, Wilkes,” Sherlock replied with cordial calm, as if recommending a good wine pairing for dinner.

Wilkes scowled at the profanity. "You know why we're here. We've received enough reliable information to take you both into custody."

"By whose authority?" John challenged from behind Sherlock.

"That is not your concern," said another of them, derision plain in his voice.

One of the armed men, eyes locked on John, moved forward and tried to push past Sherlock. The detective immediately punched him with a strong right hook, sending the man sprawling onto the ground. Two of the other suited men responded with lightning reflexes, launching toward Sherlock.

John stayed where he was, unsure whether he should get involved in the scuffle with what were, most likely, a group of exceptionally strong vampires. A human stood no chance in a physical altercation with one of their kind, let alone five.

Instead, he knelt down.

"Sherlock," John shouted as he watched him struggle against the armed men. "Stop it, Sherlock."

Sherlock paused, and in his moment of hesitation was forced down onto the ground by one of the men. There was no way they were getting out. Sherlock knew that - it was for that precise reason he had brought John all the way out here. Why was he fighting back?

The armed men took a moment to ensure Sherlock's surrender. One walked over to where John knelt on the ground. John waited as they zip-tied his hands behind his back. He was pulled upward into a standing position.

They had done the same with Sherlock, who looked profoundly vengeful as he glared up at one of the suited men.

The men forced them along the path and out of the park, where a waiting unmarked van idled on the road. They placed a loose hood over John's head, although he didn't detect any such precaution for Sherlock, and sat them inside the vehicle. After everyone else got in, the van revved to life and they pulled away.

The rest of the ride was silent, although John felt Sherlock pressing against his side. In a way, it was relieving that something had finally _happened_. The tension of the past weeks had dissolved. At least now, no matter what occurred, John could _do_ something. Respond and adapt to a situation. Sherlock, too; they were never better as a team than when they had a solid problem in front of them to solve. He hoped to God that Sherlock had some idea of what was happening, because John was at a complete loss.

After around twenty minutes of smooth driving, the van entered a bumpy patch of road. A gravel drive, probably.

The vehicle parked suddenly, and then the doors slid open. Several hands grabbed at John and dragged him out of the van.

His feet hit the gravel unevenly and he overbalanced, slamming down onto the loose stones with a harsh grunt and only his shoulder to break the fall.

“John!” Sherlock called, voice rising over the coarse chuckles of the others. Several shuffles followed.

“Sherlock?” John answered without thinking. Hands still tied, he couldn’t move all that effectively. Where were they? He reflexively focused on the sounds of his environment, the feel of the pointed stones beneath him and staggered sources of light that he could detect through the weave of his hood - anything to get a clue as to their location. His observations now might prove critical, later.

“Shut up, Holmes,” replied Wilkes from somewhere to the left. “He’s not worth the trouble.”

“If he’s not worth the trouble, then how low shall I estimate _your_ value?” Sherlock spat. “You’re nothing but an inexcusable sycophant riding your family’s coattails-”

The unmistakable sound of something slamming into the side of the van resounded through the air. Sherlock hissed out a short breath.

“Say something like that to me again, and I won’t hesitate to bury you out by the rose garden,” Wilkes responded, dangerously quiet. “We’ll see how your brother enjoys finding your body parts piece by piece.”

Sherlock laughed derisively. “Do what you like, but I doubt I need to remind you of what he’s capable.”

There was a tense pause.

“Bring the doctor inside, lads,” Wilkes said, finally.

The iron grip of several inhumanly strong hands pulled John upright.

“John, just do what they ask. It’ll be fine,” Sherlock told him, sounding closer.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” John warned in the general direction he had heard Sherlock’s voice.

He was made to walk a decent distance across the gravel, escorts prodding him every time he moved too slowly for their liking. They passed over the threshold of a building and onto a hardwood floor before turning down what must be a carpeted hallway. One of the men opened a heavy door and pushed him into another room. They forced John down onto his knees again, and then set about removing his hood.

They were in an old-style mansion bedroom, dim and richly decorated with portraits and fancy wall fixtures.

"Vampires, then?" John asked tepidly.

The two men in the room with him gave no answer. Instead, one grabbed hold of a medical case waiting in the room and the other cut the ties on his hands.

The case was opened, and John could see a traditional kit for drawing blood samples.

Sighing, John realized that this entire manor was probably swarming with vampires and that he would not be leaving without their permission. He voluntarily stretched out his arm, letting the man with the case insert the needle. They drew three tubes of blood. They didn't bother bandaging it when finished; one of the men simply licked his finger and pressed it onto the puncture wound. It was disgusting, but the cessation of bleeding confirmed John's suspicions that they were, indeed, vampires.

After taking the blood and departing, John was left locked in the room for the night. The portraits leered down at him from their positions on the wall, silently casting judgment upon the intruder in their sacred domain.

John's immediate concern was Sherlock's location and condition, although, as a vampire, he was probably safe from any significant harm despite Wilkes’ threats. He hoped that was true, at least. If they hurt Sherlock, the vampires would quickly learn how wrathful a human could be.

“He’s fine. Of course he’s fine,” John assured the painted pictures. They didn’t seem particularly hopeful.

After a half hour, John remembered that he was still wearing Sherlock's scarf. He laid down on the uncomfortably hard bed and buried his face in the soft material, seeking rest with the scent of home, and Sherlock, filling his mind. 


	3. Captivity

In the morning, after downing a bland breakfast prepared by people obviously unaccustomed to eating such food, John was shown to a stuffy wood-paneled study adorned with what looked to be furniture from the 18th century. His vampire escorts, silent despite his questions, sat him in the padded leather chair in front of the desk, then departed. The room was ominous and a bit intimidating, the only natural light coming from a filtered glow through curtained windows. John fought the urge to stand up and pace.

It had been a long and sleepless night. His mind had raced with countless streams of thought, trying to predict what this whole debacle was about. John lay for hours with the scarf draped over his eyes, wondering what they were doing with Sherlock. He’d said everything would be fine, he’d said… but things were not fine. They were far from fine. John knew empty platitudes when he heard them. He’d used them often enough in Afghanistan when trying to reassure mortally wounded soldiers that they would live to see tomorrow.

Mycroft soon entered through a side door, and John released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in his relief to see the elder Holmes. If Mycroft was here, if he knew what was happening - well, John couldn't ask for a more influential ally. Assuming he was here as an ally, of course.

John stifled his joy as he watched Mycroft. The vampire wasn’t wearing his usual proprietary smile, nor were his eyes cast with their familiar condemnatory criticism. For the first time in John's recollection, Mycroft seemed thoroughly and outwardly uncomfortable about something. He sat down on the other side of the desk.

The previous evening, John had thought of all the cogent questions he'd like to ask, when given the opportunity.

"What in the bloody hell, Mycroft?" he blurted uncontrollably.

"I suspect you're rather confused," Mycroft said at last, pulling over several paper files on the desktop. He looked through them, avoiding John’s gaze.

"A good suspicion, yeah," John answered sarcastically. "We were _abducted_. Not an unusual Friday night for us, but I dearly hope you have an explanation. Where's Sherlock?"

"He's being held elsewhere. Sherlock is involved in your case, and will be tried jointly."

John couldn't believe this. "Tried?” he asked incredulously. “Am I going to court?"

Mycroft sighed deeply and sat back in his chair, folding his hands in front of his face in an eerie likeness of Sherlock. He finally met John's eyes. "I'm truly sorry about this, John. Really. You are so beneficial for my brother."

"Mycroft," John said cautiously, fear edging into his voice.

His eyes did not waver, nor did they give any indication of his thoughts. Truly, Mycroft was born to be a bureaucrat. He tilted his head, studying John. "Sherlock was rather unresponsive to any questions regarding you. How long has he known of your blood condition?"

"My blood condition?” John replied defensively. “He said I was perfectly healthy.”

"Please answer the question, John."

There was no way for John to tell whether Mycroft was on his side or not. He knew what Sherlock would say: absolutely do not trust him. All evidence suggested that Sherlock's opinion was a product of a juvenile feud, though, despite their extreme age. John decided to take it on faith that Mycroft wanted only the best for his brother and, by extension, John himself.

"Nearly... two weeks, now? He tried to feed from me," John told him with audible reluctance.

"And he explained why he was unable?"

"He said my blood is poisonous to vampires. From malaria I contracted in Afghanistan."

Mycroft nodded knowingly. "I should probably explain from the beginning, John. I owe you that much.”

“Someone ought to, or I may just go a bit mad.”

“Vampires, of course, are completely reliant on the human race for survival,” Mycroft began. “I won't go into too much detail, but we gain far more from your species than a mere food source. We take extreme care in watching over humans. For example, if too many people were allowed to turn, the predator-prey balance would topple dramatically to everyone's ruin. Vampires would starve in the streets, and humans would be run down to extinction. For this reason, we tightly control the vampire population. We wish nothing but health and happiness for our human stock. If they thrive, so do we."

John listened carefully. He didn't know how to feel about being referred to as vampire livestock.

"On occasion, however, mother nature outsmarts us. Over the last few centuries, we've come to discover there are small pockets of diseases that wreak utter havoc amongst humans. Nothing as blatantly destructive as the Black Death or its ilk, but certain strains that are devastating in a far subtler manner. Certain humans are predisposed to have less... palatable blood than others. When these humans are exposed to certain rare diseases, a very disconcerting effect takes place. We call them Immune, and you are one of them."

"What does that mean, exactly?” John asked. “You can't drink my blood?"

Mycroft shook his head. "More than that, John: you can't be turned.”

“I can’t become a vampire?”

“The venom we secrete to turn humans would be ineffective when used on you. But what's worse, this trait will be passed to your offspring. If knowledge of your condition were made known to the world at large, it is highly likely the humans could isolate the chemical reaction and vaccinate everyone with the potential to become Immune. Within a few short generations, the genes could infiltrate a large proportion of the population. We would be destroyed as a species, with neither the capacity to draw sustenance nor reproduce."

John shifted in his chair. "So why the abduction?"

"I accept the blame for that. Suspicions do not remain private for long within our community. Several on the council detected my misgivings after our conversation last week, and they proceeded to watch both you and Sherlock very carefully. The evidence was strong enough that they took you both for judgment."

"For what? We haven't done anything."

"Sherlock will be tried for intentionally keeping your condition a secret, and you will be tried for being Immune. The blood tests have already confirmed it. Unfortunately, there is only one possible sentence in your case," Mycroft said regretfully. "Death."

John stared blankly for several moments as the word came crashing down on his ears. "Death?"

Mycroft frowned uncomfortably. "We take great care in watching over our food source, John. If we allowed Immune to live and procreate, we would have long ago died out. Many of the elders regard it as preventing disease from infiltrating the livestock, just as humans would track and quarantine mad cow disease."

This was insane. Vampire death tribunals? A frantic sense of agitation fluttered through John. "Cows aren't sentient, Mycroft. I'm a person - I have rights! How could they just... it's ludicrous!"

"Unfortunately, the elders do not share your opinions."

"What if I never had children?"

"We've had many experiences with exceptions to our rule in the past. Promises, bribes; it all ended the same. We can't watch every single Immune day and night for the rest of their lives. Inevitably, Immune children are created. You must understand that your life span is akin to dogs or cats in our eyes. Humans breed quite rapidly. It was decided, after many failed exemptions, that an across-the-board execution edict would be far easier to manage. The only guaranteed way to eliminate the threat is to destroy it entirely."

John launched from his chair, pacing around behind the backrest. He looked at Mycroft. "They don't have the authority to do this."

"As you've seen, we have the authority to do whatever we please."

This explained so much. Sherlock's unnerving behavior. His reticence to tell John. “Sherlock knows all this?”

“Indeed,” Mycroft answered flatly.

“And he couldn’t tell me? He knew for two entire- Christ,” he said, rubbing at his eyes. “He stood there and lied to me, telling me there wasn’t a problem. And now I get to hear it from you.”

“I saw him earlier. He is extremely concerned for you,” Mycroft noted.

“Yeah, well, I would've preferred to hear it from my... from Sherlock.” John ran a trembling hand through his hair. Was this actually happening? He barked a manic whimper. ”So that's it, then. I'm to be killed, and Sherlock is to be punished."

"In all likelihood, although it seems Sherlock has not been idle these past weeks," Mycroft replied. "He and I have discussed a possible plan. I am most sincere when I say both that this is my fault and that I lament that it has happened, although, truthfully, it was only a matter of time until you were discovered. Sherlock and I are focusing our not-inconsiderable intellect on the problem and have arrived at a sensible conclusion. The only question is whether the council will allow it. We think they might be appeased if Sherlock successfully binds to you."

John stopped his pacing. "If he what?"

Mycroft shifted thoughtfully. "It's difficult to explain to one who is not well-versed in vampire abilities and traditions. As I have alluded, we are capable of far more than most humans suspect. This would be a sort of... joining."

"You mean like a marriage?"

"An insufficient analogy. Marriage, in the traditional sense, is a fleeting and easily reversible union in comparison. Binding works on a far more fundamental level and cannot be nullified except through death alone. We would need to guarantee that you would never have children and that your condition never come to light. If you were bound to Sherlock, that would not happen."

"Why hasn't this been suggested before to deal with Immune?"

Mycroft's eyes were ice cold. "Because, for it to work, Sherlock needs to ingest a large quantity of your blood. Which, of course, would kill him quite quickly. Far more quickly than would be required to complete the ritual. Not to mention the high risk of your dying from blood loss."

John almost felt like morbidly laughing. It was all so utterly surreal. "That's the plan, then? Instant death for me, or death by poison for him and _then_ death for me?"

"As I said, we have a method we think might work."

 

\---

 

John spent the next few hours imprisoned back in his room, contemplating and considering this extremely strange course of events. It was almost unbelievable that they would execute him so brazenly. The weight of the sentence hadn't sunk into his mind, yet. Death? Did the vampires have the ability to simply wipe someone off the planet without anyone noticing? Evidently, yes. They did not seem to lack for wealth, and John had seen first-hand the types of stunts Mycroft could pull off by himself. And beyond that, what would they do to Sherlock for his part in all this? The man had simply been trying to protect John.

Eventually, Mycroft and several guards came to retrieve him for the hearing in front of the vampire council. At the end of their meeting, Mycroft had mentioned that dealing with Immune was a swift process, trumping all other cases that the elders might need to pass judgment upon. John and Sherlock would be afforded immediate attention. Lucky them.

Hands once again secured behind his back, John and the vampires walked in uncomfortable silence through the palatial household. It was an labyrinthine structure, numerous passages branching off from chandeliered galleries bedecked with intricately carved trimmings and polished wooden floors. Low lamps glowed and flickered in their iron sconces along the walls. Groupings of other vampires watched as they passed, delivering solemn and disparaging looks to John. Going by the sneers, it was overly apparent that they all believed him to be a dangerous liability.

He'd never seen more than two or three vampires together at a time. Presented in small packs, John was struck by how refined and aristocratic they appeared. Unnaturally pale countenances - even for those who had obviously sported darker complexions in their human lives - peered back at him with bright, sharp eyes. Sherlock would certainly fit in amongst them. In appearance, at least.

The women favored structured floor-length dresses and elaborately gathered hair styles. The men almost exclusively wore tailored suits of varying cuts and colors, reminiscent of historical photos of sophisticated societal barons and industrial magnates. A noticeable few wore far older clothing, replete with knee-high stockings and powdered hair. In fact, both sexes' clothing wouldn't look entirely amiss in pictures from centuries past. John got the impression that many of these vampires didn't walk amongst humans all that often. If they were as old as he suspected, they probably felt more at home in the garb of their original eras.

It definitely explained why both Mycroft and Sherlock wore suits all the time. In such scrutinizing company, John felt positively underdressed in his collared shirt and jeans. He probably looked like a pierced and tattooed punk-rock hooligan to these people.

Mycroft nodded to the other vampires in polite greeting as they walked. If John didn't know better, he might say Mycroft was trying to draw their attention and spare him the derogatory glances. When they passed through a series of heavily-guarded private double doors and out of the main hallways, John was more than a little relieved.

The council chambers were an old-fashioned court room that reminded John unnervingly of 17th-century witch trials. Granted, the elderly vampires arranged on the high bench could reasonably have been alive to see those trials for themselves. No doubt they drew comfort in the familiar surroundings.

The elder vampires of the council talked amongst themselves on their elevated perch. Most looked like death itself: sagging translucent skin, clouded eyes, missing teeth or fangs. Vampires retained the appearance of the same age as when they were turned throughout most of their lives. They began noticeably aging only when they were in the last few decades of life. The fact that those present appeared to be knocking on death's door spoke volumes about their extreme age.

Mycroft mentioned that council trials were not open for public viewing by other vampires and, thankfully, the rows of seats overlooking the chamber were almost entirely empty. John grimaced to himself as he passed down the aisle. At least he wouldn't be sentenced to death in front of a hostile crowd.

John was placed on a hard wooden bench in the front row, and his hands were set free from their restraints. He rubbed his wrists painfully as he watched Sherlock brought through a separate side door. They seated him on a bench across the aisle. He looked whole and unharmed, if not thoroughly annoyed with having to endure the formalities of the hearing. John shot him a remorseful look, but Sherlock returned one of determination.

Mycroft, still standing with John, gave him one last appraising glance. John nodded at him in quiet thanks for the accompaniment. The elder Holmes tipped his head, then departed across the aisle to join his brother. They immediately began talking in low whispers, Sherlock occasionally glancing over at John with intent in his eyes.

A gavel banged loudly, and all discussion in the room died down.

"This emergency session has been convened to address the critical and vexing issues presented by the two defendants before us," announced the head judge of the panel, a thin and bony woman. "All in attendance agree that the sentencing of those involved in cases of Immunity is the highest responsibility of this council. I remind my fellow council members that protocol in such cases is long established by writ and precedent set down by our forebears. Expediency is valued by all, today." She glanced down at the defendants. "Sherlock, sired son of the Holmes lineage, please rise to address the court."

Sherlock stood, Mycroft at his side.

"You are formally charged with the discovery of and intent to conceal an Immune human, one John Hamish Watson. You learned of his condition on the twenty-first day of last month and have since refrained from reporting his status," she said bluntly. "Do you have testimony prepared in your defense?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered placidly, folding his arms behind his back. "It's quite simple, madam. I love him, and I do not wish him to be killed."

John's heart skipped a beat. It was only the second time he'd heard Sherlock explicitly say those words.

"A regrettable circumstance, but you are quite aware of the law, Mr. Holmes, as well as the unacceptable risks surrounding his condition?" the judge asked.

"I am."

"And you knowingly disobeyed it?"

"I did."

"I appreciate your candidness, Mr. Holmes, but that does not wipe clean your actions in this matter. You are sentenced to the standard punishment: forty years' confinement in an underground cell." She banged the gavel, and John winced.

Sherlock sat back down, not the least bit perturbed about his sentence. John saw him say something quietly to Mycroft, who nodded.

"Mycroft Holmes, I believe you volunteered to represent the Immune in this case?" the judge asked after a moment.

"Yes," Mycroft said. He stood and crossed the aisle to where John sat.

The judge looked directly at John for the first time since he entered the courtroom. "We have tested your blood, Dr. Watson, and have independently and unequivocally confirmed that you are Immune and therefore unilaterally sentenced to death. I would take this moment to assure you that our conclusion does not reflect on our opinions of you personally, but that we act in the greatest interest of both vampires and humanity as a whole. Mr. Holmes, has he been informed of his dangerous condition and the reasons behind our actions?"

"He has," confirmed Mycroft.

The judge glanced down at her notes. "It says here you would like to give a statement before we conclude, Mr. Holmes. You have five minutes. Proceed."

"Thank you, madam," Mycroft said, clearing his throat and shifting slightly where he stood. "Ladies and gentlemen of the council, I am here representing both John and Sherlock not because of my sense of brotherly duty, but because allowing John Watson to die would be far more detrimental to the vampire community than allowing him to live. You are all aware of my brother's occupation, I know, and that he does not conform to the standard lifestyle amongst our family. Nevertheless, we need vampires such as him representing us within the greater human population. Sherlock is willing to openly declare his status to the world, and I know that throughout the years to come he will serve as an ambassador for our kind. He cannot do this job alone, however; seeing him working and succeeding alongside a human will help bridge that gap."

"Your ideals are far-flung and lofty, Mr. Holmes, but we cannot allow such a danger simply for good press," noted the old man on the far left.

"Indeed. This is where I come to my primary proposal. I have known John for nearly seventeen months, and never in my entire life have I seen someone have such a profound effect on my younger brother. They need one another, and I have rarely seen a couple so devoted. There is a simple solution that can solve the problems presented in this case: allow Sherlock and John to perform the binding ritual."

"That is quite impossible," scoffed one of the other elderly men. "Your brother would die in the effort."

"Traditionally, yes, this is what we've believed. Sherlock and I have assembled a plan we predict can work, however. A heavy regimen of the more potent herbs, a few stabilizing spells, and time to acclimate to John's blood are all that is needed. A month, at most, would be required before a binding could be safely attempted. If we fail, it is likely both John and Sherlock would die anyway. If successful, we would discover a nonlethal method of neutralizing the problem."

John's mouth fell open in shock. Spells? Did Mycroft really just refer to magic?

The panel of elderly vampires began whispering amongst themselves. John glanced at Sherlock again. Eyes closed, he sat on his bench with an expression of profound concentration, alternately ready to be struck down or raised up. As if it was his own life on the line.

"It would be an efficient method of policing an Immune," stated one of the women.

"If it worked, what then? All the Immune would try to bind with a vampire-"

"You know very well that a binding can't be falsified," retorted the head woman. "It's authentic or it isn't, and if it isn't the outcome is the same and therefore irrelevant."

"I can't support the idea of dozens of bound Immune-"

"-we ought to let this be a test case. See if it works-"

"-agree, we can make further judgments later-"

"-no risk of procreation? If they think they can do it-"

"You are aware of what you are asking, young one?" another old man asked abruptly, voice rising above the babble of the others and bringing them to silence. He was staring straight at Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, pale gaze sharp as ever. He watched the old man from beneath his eyebrows. "Of course."

"You would be completely liable for him. Total responsibility for all of his actions," the vampire warned. "Re-imposing the death sentence upon him would apply to you, as well. Do you truly trust this human enough to run that risk?"

Sherlock didn't even hesitate. "Yes."

"I envy your confidence," the man replied, "and confess that, were our positions reversed, I would not be capable of trusting a human so entirely."

"That is your loss," Sherlock answered with marked belligerence.

"Both parties have consented to this course of action?" the head woman asked.

"Yes, madam," interjected Mycroft.

"They would need to stay in a highly monitored location and not be allowed to leave until the end of the process."

"I would volunteer the Holmes estate for that purpose."

More whispers.

The head woman banged the gavel. "We are agreed. You have one month to try, Mr. Holmes. After that, we will follow through with Dr. Watson's execution."


	4. Elocution

The car trip to Mycroft's estate was far more comfortable than the brusque van ride from the park. Sherlock and John sat side-by-side in the back of the town car, gripping hands as Mycroft conversed loudly over the phone with his subordinates.

John stared out the tinted window, mind numb and grasping weakly to process everything. The landscape outside morphed into an undulating green outline now that they were beyond the major city limits of London. The rushing colors gave him something to clutch at inside his head. A meager distraction, but one that kept him safely buoyant amidst the perilous seas rising rapidly around him.

The fingers clasping his hand shifted and loosened, curling around until the thumb extended to his wrist. John turned to glance at Sherlock. The detective’s eyes bored into him, skimming instinctively to collect as much information as they could glean. They asked a question John was still struggling to answer for himself. _Are you going to be all right?_

Back in his long coat and returned scarf, Sherlock showed no obvious indication of the traumatic events from only hours ago. The most telling clue was the insistent concern in his expression. From the moment they had been reunited, a stiff tension had settled in his brow and grown increasingly pronounced as time passed. He badly wanted to solve this problem, but that meant rectifying John's state.

John nervously flexed his free hand against the material of his jeans and frowned faintly. He silently communicated the only reply he had to offer. _I don’t know._

Their release into Mycroft’s custody came almost immediately after the abrupt end of the trial. Of course, “trial” was hardly the right term for that farcical showing. John still didn’t understand what was going on, precisely – the intervening time was a blur of hushed conversations, speculative stares, and close captivity in Sherlock’s unrelenting grasp until they reached the long, dark car. Sherlock and Mycroft hadn’t taken the time to explain anything, but it was clear that they were worried. Their plan sounded ill-advised and extremely dangerous. John knew that much, at least.

Lost and adrift, even Sherlock’s secure handhold wasn’t enough to bring John fully back to earth. Sherlock looked confident, but it was difficult to tell how much of it was bravado rather than genuine.

John knew he wanted to ask things of Sherlock, to clarify what was happening and castigate him for his terrible behavior during the last few weeks. He wasn’t ready for that conversation. Not now, when he could barely even decipher his own emotional reactions to this whole situation.

Sherlock squeezed his hand a little tighter, as if promising things would be all right.

John didn’t see it. Not yet, at least.

Mycroft hung up, finally, and stowed his phone into his suit pocket. "I've arranged everything I can think of to make this process easier. We can expect a very large delivery from the herbalist by tonight, and the staff spellcrafter has been alerted. Many of your possessions are being brought from Baker Street as we speak."

"S _pells_? Am I supposed to believe this?" questioned John, emerging from his haze at Mycroft's words. He’d heard the rumors, growing up, but always took them with a grain of salt. "Is this another mysterious aspect of vampirism?"

"Yes, actually," said Sherlock, glancing at him. "Nothing as powerful as the stories would have you believe, but vampires are naturally attuned to the more alchemical side of nature. With the right herbal mixtures and words you can create rather remarkable effects."

"I’ve never seen you do anything resembling spell-casting," John replied doubtfully.

"It’s the twenty-first century, for God’s sake. We don’t go about chanting and drawing pentagrams, John. The techniques are actually quite similar to basic chemistry,” Sherlock said. “I don't expect you to understand it."

"The council had decided to send a team of watchers to monitor the borders of the estate," interrupted Mycroft. "Their job is to make sure you remain inside at all times, though I doubt you'll feel keen on going anywhere." He looked specifically at Sherlock.

“They will stay off the property,” Sherlock demanded. He pulled John's hand closer, over his lap. “I don’t want them anywhere near the house.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “You mean you don’t want them near John.”

“I’m not fond of the idea, no. I’ll not risk any reconsideration on their part.”

“I will inform them of your request, but the council does as it will.”

“What’s the point of holding a position in the bureaucracy if you can’t even keep them out of your own home?” Sherlock challenged.

“All that we have, material and otherwise, is by their generosity,” Mycroft reminded him darkly. “Denying any request is far more dangerous than submitting.”

Sherlock grumbled and frowned. "We should start tonight. Waste no time.”

Mycroft nodded. "Agreed."

 

\---

 

The Holmes estate was a massive stone mansion amidst sprawling, manicured grounds. A small selection of staff waited in the front entrance hall to greet Mycroft and their new guests as they arrived. John was no expert in estate administration, but it seemed that there were far too few workers for such a large house.  Only around a dozen men and women stood in a curious cluster. The last-minute preparations must have been completed to Mycroft's satisfaction, because he smiled and asked for Sherlock and John to be shown to their rooms.

“This is where you lived, before?” John asked Sherlock as they ascended the stone staircase behind Mycroft and a small contingent of personnel. Their footfalls echoed with every step.

“Not for nearly ninety years,” Sherlock replied, coldly peering around at the exquisite architecture. “It’s a restrictive environment, as you might imagine.”

“Does anyone else in your family live here?”

Sherlock paused on the steps, hand settling onto the railing. “Our sire died a few decades ago. Mycroft is now the patriarch of the family. We two are the only ones left in our direct line.”

Their rooms turned out to be the entire second level of the east wing of the house. The decor was more airy and comfortable than the previous vampire mansion, but there was still a distinct respect for their illustrious predecessors. Portraits of pallid men and women stared out from their places along the hallways. John didn’t see a particular family resemblance between any of their faces, but then vampires determined lineage by their sires, not their biological families. Sherlock and Mycroft were considered brothers because of their shared sire. The Holmes clan had called this estate home for almost four hundred years.

Mycroft pointed out the various rooms as they passed each door. John wasn’t truly taken aback until they entered the sitting room. It came complete with vaulted ceilings, a wood-burning fireplace, expensively embroidered curtains, and sturdy oak bookshelves laden with leather-bound tomes. A comfortable set of sofas was arranged under the tall, shrouded windows. It reminded John of a warm, fire-lit cavern.

“There’s still much to do, and very little time in which to do it,” Mycroft noted from near the doorway. He tucked a hand into the pocket of his suit jacket. “The herbalist will arrive at dusk. If you’ll join me in the main study, Sherlock…”

“Yes, I think I’d like to hear more about this plan of yours,” John said. He turned, breaking away from his inspection of the lamps, whose carved bases appeared be intricately inlaid with purpleheart wood.

Sherlock’s face was impassive. “I think it’s best if you stay here.”

Indignation shot through John’s nervous system. “You’re not cutting me out. Not again,” he argued. “I need to know what’s happening.”

“Sherlock and I must address several issues in private,” Mycroft said placidly, drawing out his timepiece and examining its polished face. “I’m sorry, John, but your presence will not be conducive to a productive conversation.”

“Not conducive-! Bloody hell, I don’t care if I’m conducive or not!” John approached Sherlock and staunchly crossed his arms. Enragement gathered in his chest. “I deserve to be there. Not ignored, not pushed aside. We’re in this together.”

Sherlock shook his head, mouth tightening into a disparaging line. “I promise to explain everything to your satisfaction, but now is not the time.”

John gaped at him. He’d put his trust in Sherlock, and here he was blocking John from critical information yet again. It was completely odd that Sherlock would capitulate to Mycroft’s whims so easily.

“I’ll return for you,” Sherlock told him regretfully. “Please, do not leave this wing.”

The Holmes brothers quietly slipped away, leaving John standing alone in the large, empty room.

Unsure what to do with himself or his growing anger, John wandered to the bedroom he and Sherlock were meant to share. It was stuffy and silent, a proud reliquary that displayed ancient tokens of the Holmes family. An antique four-poster bed dominated the room, drapes gathered back around the sides of the modern mattress. Along the far wall, an ornate desk lined with writing implements was positioned next to the door of the adjoining bathroom. The lamps and other lights were dimmer than normal, lending a sort of melancholy cast to the space.

Several suitcases full of their wardrobes and personal affects had already been delivered, waiting and unopened at the foot of the bed. John drew closer and flipped open the lid of the closest suitcase. Inside sat two folded piles of clothing; on the left, an assorted array of his own jumpers and shirts, and on the right some of Sherlock’s t-shirts and pyjamas.

A bitter ire blossomed deep in his chest cavity as he ran a hand over the soft cotton on Sherlock’s side. Drawing a sharp breath, John allowed the force of his outrage to scour through every corner of his body until he visibly shook in his effort to contain it all. They had no right to exclude him, no right to treat him as a lesser party. It was _his_ damned condition! His blood, his problem. John's hand fisted into a white-knuckle grip on the closest article of Sherlock's clothing. He was so fucking angry – at Sherlock, at Mycroft, at _everything_ –  

A massive shadow, hung precariously just beyond sight all day, convulsed against the outer edges of his mind. Something deep inside John distinctly cracked under the suffocating weight of his emotions. Caught beneath the great swells of some powerful sea, the undertow finally wrenched him under the looming waves as the force of gravity brought them crashing down on all sides.

John barely managed to lash out to cling to the bedpost to support himself as the panic hit him, gasping for air that filled his lungs in burning stretches. His mounting anxiety, so conveniently buried, burst forth ferociously from behind the crumbling walls in his head. Vision constricted and uncontrollably hyperventilating, John endured helplessly as his anger distorted into overwhelming fear. The damning condemnations from earlier seared like hot coals in his mind. _There is only one sentence. Death._

One chance, remote and dangerous, was all they had. John was probably going to lose everything that mattered. The cruelest irony was that he had only just come to understand the staggering amount he stood to lose.

John pressed his head to the wood, struggling to regain control of himself. The world spun around him, all relevant points of reference smeared away. A painful pressure expanded in his chest. Lightheaded, he lurched on faltering legs into the bathroom.

Shutting the door behind him, John stopped to stare into the mirror. The familiar reflection looked haggard, pale, and on the verge of tears. A clawing heat climbed up his throat, and he turned his back to the reflective surface.

John twisted the knobs of the shower until the spray emerged, hot and steamy. As the humidity clouded the air, John sank down onto the floor with his back against the wall.

The first sobs were hot and wet and strong enough to reverberate through his entire body, sound drowned out by the cascading water of the shower. John drew his legs up, ducking his head onto his knees and burying it with his arms. He let his tears run their course against the noisy backdrop, until there was nothing left but dry-heaves and a terrifying sense of being utterly alone.

 

\---

 

Sherlock eventually returned some time later, catching John in the middle of unpacking their belongings. He felt significantly calmer after a long shower that washed away the remnants of his despair. Mycroft had even sent a maid to deliver a warm meal for him, which he had downed with a restored appetite.

The detective’s brow furrowed when he saw John, eyes quickly travelling over his face. Although John’s crying spell had ended a while earlier, it was obvious that there was enough evidence left for Sherlock to tell. He didn’t say anything, but simply took John’s hand and led him out of the room.

They met Mycroft and the herbalist back in their sitting room. The herbalist, named Nathaniel, was a vampire turned in his youth. He was nothing more than a ginger teenage boy to John's eyes despite approaching five hundred years of age. Sporting a slim, dark tailcoat and light-colored trousers, he looked as if he'd popped out of a Jane Austen production.

With him, Nathaniel brought an array of stuffed pouches of dried herbs and sample vials filled with odd liquids. He sorted them into separate piles. Sherlock and John sat on one of the plush couches across from Nathaniel, looking over the collection with curiosity. Mycroft paced a short distance away, watching warily.

"I have prepared two separate fortifying remedies. One for each of you," explained Nathaniel. The authority with which he spoke was jarring. "Yours, John, is to reinforce your health and promote the growth of new blood cells. Sherlock's is to guard against poisoning and help his body adapt to a toxic substance. Once Sherlock can stomach enough of the blood on a daily basis, I suggest he subsist solely on John. Adding common blood to the diet will only delay the process."

John picked through several twine-wrapped bundles of woody plants. "How should he take it?”

"Under every circumstance, blood is more palatable when fresher. That means from a living source,” said Nathaniel. “I would suggest he feed directly from you throughout this entire ordeal. It won't be easy, Sherlock. You'll essentially be training yourself to digest poison. It would be like John learning to drink mercury."

"Not a problem as long as the herbs do their job," Sherlock said dismissively.

Nathaniel didn’t look completely convinced. "Your goal is to build up a resistance. We'll switch out the herbs that nullify the toxicity as we go. You won't be able to use them during the binding process, so it's critical that you can survive it. I would recommend three sessions per day, one each in the morning, mid-afternoon and evening."

“That’s a lot, isn’t it? Blood?” John asked fretfully.

“It won’t amount to much at first, but over time, yes,” Nathaniel answered. “It will be taxing for both of you, but it’s the only way Sherlock can prepare for the binding.”

“Even then, it may not be enough,” Mycroft interjected forebodingly. He hovered behind the couch like a vigilant ghost.

Nathaniel nodded in agreement, looking at John. “During the binding process, a vampire consumes a large quantity of the human’s blood. It is then transmuted in the vampire’s digestive tract. Essentially, he imbues the blood with the necessary catalyzing agents to induce the ability to bind in the human. Once finished, it is regurgitated back into the original source and binding can commence.”

John raised an eyebrow. “That sounds disgusting.”

“Perhaps to the unfamiliar observer. It’s a surprisingly natural process for a vampire. The main problem is your Immunity, John,” Nathaniel replied. “It greatly complicates the procedure. Sherlock will need to take a very large amount of your blood. Far more than is normal in this situation. He must be able to survive the dosage, but also alter and return it before you expire from blood loss.”

“Charming,” Sherlock commented drily, glancing at John.

Nathaniel demonstrated how to mix the herbs appropriately with pestle and mortar, creating a simple poison remedy out of moonwort, yarrow, thistle, witch grass, and a tincture of cedar ash. He added several powdered plants and oils that John couldn't keep track of, identifying their uses and conditions of harvest. Apparently, herbs harvested at dusk on a night of a new moon were most powerful.

Sherlock downed the resulting paste, then slid closer to John and took his right arm.

"Just a wetting of the tongue, now," Nathaniel warned.

He brought John’s wrist up to his mouth. There was a wet, sharp sensation like two pinpricks on the underside of his wrist joint, right where the veins ran close to the surface. Sherlock pulled away almost immediately, contorting his face and forcing himself to swallow the small amount of blood.

John pulled his wrist back, inspecting the two pale red spots where he had been bitten. The coagulants in Sherlock’s saliva were really quite effective.

"That didn't taste as foul as the last time," Sherlock observed once he had consumed the blood.

"The herbs help,” Nathaniel said. “You'll develop a taste for it, eventually."

They waited a few minutes to see if Sherlock experienced any pain or cramping. He seemed fine, if a little tense. The herbalist rose and shook their hands, telling them to call if they had any questions or concerns.

 

\---

 

After the meeting with Nathaniel, John returned their joint bedroom to find large sigils painted on the walls and above the bed.

"Spells that encourage and stabilize health," Sherlock explained from behind him. "Mycroft's spellcrafter has been here. You might find talismans and other protective charms around the room."

John twisted his mouth into a half-smile. "I thought you said spells didn't involve 'drawing pentagrams', as you put it?"

"Not by necessity. There's no real point in concealing these markings."

Sherlock swept passed him into the room, looking around to catalogue the changes. John followed, making his way toward the bed. He didn’t feel tired in the least, with so much unease coursing through his veins.

John sat down on the side of the bed, glancing up at Sherlock. "Listen, I know it was your idea to do this-"

"Don't be so predictable, John," he interrupted, bending to inspect the scrawled symbols.

John sighed. "Can you let me say this? I appreciate it. What you're doing for me."

Sherlock scratched curiously at the paint on the wall, rubbing a sample experimentally between his fingers. "My actions are almost entirely selfish, actually."

"Risking your life for someone else isn't selfish."

He turned to look at John. "If that's what you think, then you haven't been paying attention. I did what I could to buy time before they inevitably discovered you. I concocted the structure of this plan long before Mycroft made his fateful visit.” Sherlock's eyes conveyed absolute conviction. “I am prepared to do anything and everything in my power to keep you alive and breathing."

John felt the old, familiar sensation of warm affection for him. It had been far too long since he felt that. "That's almost... romantic, Sherlock. For you. But why couldn't you just tell me straight away?"

Sherlock folded his arms behind his back. "I didn't want to cause you more alarm than was absolutely necessary, John. And I certainly didn't want to create a flight risk."

"You thought I would run away if I knew?"

"In all probability, yes, if only to preserve my own safety from those who wished to catch you. I wanted you to stay where I might keep an eye on you." He wandered closer, watching John carefully. 

“Was that an option? If I had a death sentence hanging over my head – why didn’t we run?”

Sherlock met his eyes evenly. “They have ways of finding me. A vampire can’t simply disappear. And if you had left by yourself, it would have been highly suspicious. Mycroft would have ensured that you were found. The council’s resources are vast, and catching you by yourself would have prevented me from offering our current solution. They would have likely executed you on the spot. From the moment I recognized our problem, it was obvious we needed to stay together to survive unscathed. Despite what it may look like, this is our best chance.”

John leaned forward and planted his face in his hands.

"John?" Sherlock asked. The bed dipped as he sat down next to him.

"I thought... I didn't know what to think," John said, glancing up with a pained expression.

Sherlock searched his face, and John could see the wheels of thought turning in his head as he attempted to understand what John was feeling.

"I want this - _us_ \- to work,” John explained empathetically. “Everything is so new. It's not exactly how I pictured our first few weeks to go."

"You thought we would be irrevocably damaged," Sherlock observed.

"I... no. Yes, though. After how far we've come, I couldn't bear to see things ruined so quickly."

Sherlock shook his head. "I wouldn't allow something so important to be destroyed by something so irrational."

“Good intent isn’t always enough, Sherlock,” John warned sadly.

That silenced him. Sherlock grappled with the idea for several moments, glancing away to the wall.

“I trust you. I know you're trying to do the right thing. But looking in from the outside, I can’t deduce what you’re doing or why you’re doing it. These issues affect me. Quite profoundly, in fact,” John told him. “You need to remember that.”

Sherlock looked back, and there was a weight behind his eyes. “It's... easy for me to overlook how deeply you feel these things. How much they hurt you," Sherlock said. "It's strange to find you're not always the unflappable soldier."

"No, I'm not, but neither are you an unfeeling vampire." John brushed at his cheek, studying him. "You hide it well, but you're not okay."

Sherlock betrayed the tiniest fraction of discomfort. "I've only just found you," he answered quietly. "It's not fair."

"Are you worried?"John asked softly.

"You wanted honesty? Yes,” Sherlock admitted. “This is beyond my experience. It's impossible to define or predict all the variables involved. We're likely to fail as it is."

John balked. "We've faced deadly odds before."

“This is different. Very different. We’re fighting biology and three hundred years of bigoted fear. You can’t shoot our way out of this one, much as I would relish watching you do so.”

John sighed, unsure what to say. Sherlock was right, as usual. He glanced behind himself at the foreign bed. He missed Baker Street terribly. "Will you stay here? Tonight?"

Sherlock probably had a hundred different details to attend, and he didn’t seem tired at all. Instead of denying John as he had done so many times in the last few weeks, though, Sherlock softened his expression and nodded. "Of course."

It took little time for John to get ready for bed. Sherlock watched him move about the room, oddly transfixed as he performed mundane tasks. The vampire finally agreed to change into more casual attire at John’s behest.

Clad in soft t-shirts and pyjamas, they climbed under the heavy covers of the broad bed. Once John settled down onto his back, Sherlock latched onto him with endearing swiftness. He rested his curly-haired head against John’s shoulder and nuzzled into him.

"You're always so warm," Sherlock said against the fabric of his shirt.

"It's you who's cold," John rebuffed, wrapping an arm tightly around him. "Vampire core body temperature is five degrees lower than a human's."

Sherlock huffed an amused laugh. "Since your species came first, I suppose you win that one."

It was extraordinarily comforting to have Sherlock there with him, but even so John was unable to banish the uneasiness he’d accrued for the past twenty-four hours. Was he a dead man walking? The brutal logic and impassive severity of the vampires was almost beyond belief. In a month’s time, he would either be dead or bound to the vampire pressed against him. He still wasn’t quite sure what binding entailed, exactly.

John drummed his fingers anxiously against Sherlock’s rib cage. "Mycroft described binding to me."

Sherlock grunted in displeasure. "With unnecessary embellishment, I’d wager."

"It sounds serious."

"It is."

John drew a long breath, glancing down at Sherlock. "Do you think we're ready for that?"

"We don't have a choice,” Sherlock answered, raising himself up on one arm. “The question is likely to remain rhetorical, anyway, due to one or both of us failing to survive the event."

John frowned at the prediction. "Humor me, then. If none of this was happening, and I had completely normal blood and all - would we be ready? We've only been together, what, three weeks?"

There was a short period of silence as Sherlock considered it. "Three weeks on top of nearly a year and a half of living and working together. We've experienced things that would tear any 'normal' couple apart. And I can't think of anyone else with whom I would choose to bind."

"That's good to hear. And I agree."

"With which part?"

"All of it."

Sherlock smirked faintly. His gaze swept down along John’s form. "You're tired. You should sleep."

"I don't think I can," John sighed, angling his head against the pillow and looking up at Sherlock.

The vampire made a sharp dissatisfied noise, and then peeled back the covers of the bed down to John’s knees. Sherlock immediately slid a hand toward the waistband of John's pyjama bottoms.

John intercepted Sherlock’s wrist before it could move past his hip. "What are you doing?" he asked sternly.

Fingertips edging under the waistband, Sherlock raised his eyebrows as if John had failed to piece together the simplest of logic. "Helping. Available data suggests you have no trouble sleeping after ejaculation."

John tried to sit up, but Sherlock pressed the forearm of his other arm across his chest to keep him flat. "You will recall that I am markedly stronger than you," Sherlock reminded him.

“You don’t need-“

“I want to do this,” he interrupted, expression oddly sincere.

Genuinely surprised in a pleasant sort of way, John nodded his assent and released Sherlock’s wrist.

Sherlock smiled, then - a full beaming grin reminiscent of a child told he was allowed to play with his favorite toy now that his chores were finished. He nudged closer and leaned on one arm, watching John intently as his hand slowly disappeared under the material of the pyjamas.

John had thought it would be strange or uncomfortable to be touched by a male. But, as Sherlock began carefully exploring him with curious fingers, John found that preconception to be quite false. He’d only recently experienced his first explicitly sexual dream about Sherlock, and although everything went splendidly he couldn’t exactly take the experience as solid proof about his reactions in real life.

But here, with Sherlock’s hand unabashedly running over every conceivable inch of skin and coercing audibly labored breathing out of him, John knew that everything would be fine. He felt right, and safe, and keenly interested in the inquisitive vampire hovering over him. Perhaps it was simply that it was Sherlock, whom he loved more than he’d ever loved anyone, that banished the potential awkwardness.  

The investigation left John half-hard and pressing at the confines of his clothing. Sherlock finally settled his fingers around him and initiated an experimental stroke. John gasped and shuddered lightly as he hardened further, grabbing onto Sherlock’s soft shirt with both hands. The detective hummed his approval.

“Responsive,” Sherlock murmured quietly, releasing John.

He wasn’t always so. Imagining and planning for their first real attempts at sexual contact had been an exercise in futility. John was unsure how either of them would react. It was entirely arousing, though, feeling Sherlock so close - smelling and seeing him while he eagerly experienced John’s body for the first time. God, he could happily lay with Sherlock all day, patiently learning each other and building the foundations for their physical relationship.

Vampires were physically capable of performing just as a human would, but Sherlock had never seemed especially motivated to seek out partners. Apparently all it took was the _right_ partner, as Sherlock was as engrossed as John had ever witnessed.

The waist of his pyjamas was tugged downward, and John felt himself freed of the constricting fabric.

“There we have it,” Sherlock said to himself, peering curiously at the erection and brushing lightly against the skin of his waist. “You are fascinating to look at, John.”

“Pleased to provide for your amusement,” he managed in a breathy, sarcastic tone.

“I’ve never seen you this way,” noted Sherlock. Their eyes met. “I would like to do so often, in the future.”

The future. Would that be measured in years, or days?

Sherlock crowded closer, returning his hand to him. John gripped harder onto Sherlock’s shirt and back, eyelids fluttering shut as steady, solid strokes swept him to another place entirely.

There was no death sentence here. There was only the two of them, a perfectly matched pair insulated against the outside world. A place where Sherlock needn’t cater his smile and John needn’t worry. He opened his eyes, ensnared by the details of the moment. The way Sherlock’s hair fell in soft dark curls across his brow, the warm caress of a reverent hand. A darkening gaze, transfixed and wide with wonder. Traces of John’s name passing over parted lips, faint and immutable as shadow on snow.

The hand on him switched tactics, palm swirling in ways that didn’t seem possible. John descended from his daze, groaning into Sherlock’s shoulder and pulling tighter on his shirt.

"I want to see you come for me," Sherlock said roughly, heavily. Right above John, he blocked out everything else. "Just for me."

"Arrogant git," John panted.

Sherlock answered by increasing his speed, tugging and sliding his hand in an unpredictable pattern. Achingly firm and leaking copiously, given the sudden added sensation of wetness, John tried futilely to stifle a string of coarse words. Every touch shot torturous sparks through him, a tantalizing rush of pleasure and need for his dazzling, brilliant detective. He choked out Sherlock's name, hips bucking instinctively and erratically into his grip. John's hands fisted his shirt into crumpled bunches as he totally came apart.

John fell smoothly into his orgasm with a shout, clutching onto an incredibly pleased Sherlock. He tensed and shook as the muscles in his pelvis contracted uncontrollably, riding through the climax with eyes clenched shut and mouth hanging open. His emissions were quickly caught by Sherlock’s ready hand.

“Beautiful,” he heard Sherlock breathe.

The tension in his body gradually melted away, although Sherlock remained leaning over him. John relaxed back against his pillow, mind and body buzzing. He didn't pay attention, didn't know what Sherlock was doing until he suddenly heard a muffled noise come from the vampire. John felt Sherlock twitch against him a few times in an oddly stilted way. He immediately opened his eyes.

Sherlock was curled in on himself over John, breathing raggedly with a shocked expression on his face. John stared at his hunched form, barely catching it as Sherlock adjusted his own pyjamas around his waist. His other hand was coated in a thin cloudy fluid, next to John's own recognizable release. Sherlock looked at him with wide eyes, entirely confused.

"Did you just...?" John asked loosely. Christ, if Sherlock had only waited a moment for John to recover, he would have done that himself.

"I couldn't stop myself," Sherlock said, staring down at his hand.

He turned to wipe his hand on a facial tissue from the bedside table, then tossed it aside. John fumbled with trembling hands to pull up his pyjamas. Sherlock turned back, bewildered, and settled down next to John. He pulled the covers back up over them.

"Are you all right?" John questioned, bracing himself up on his elbows.

Sherlock scrutinized his face as if some critical answer might be hidden there. "I've never reacted that way."

"What, you've never got off with someone?"

Sherlock stared at him. "I've always been... uninterested. Unresponsive. I understood that about myself." His eyebrows creased together. "Seeing you... it affected me."

John nodded slowly. He had never fully identified the exact nature of Sherlock's preferences, romantic or otherwise. There never seemed to be any of which to speak. All that mattered, really, was how they felt about one another. "Hm. Are you... attracted to me? Physically, I mean?"

His eyes scanned John, up and down. "Yes," he finally answered, immensely unsettled.

"Hey," John said, reaching over to touch his arm. "It's all right. I know you're one to overanalyze, but some things are beyond labels."

"I don't understand it," Sherlock replied.

"That's okay. The rules aren't written in stone when it comes to this sort of thing. And just for the record, I'm attracted to you, as well."

"Obviously," Sherlock answered with an insolent smirk.

John moved closer and shut him up with a long kiss, sustaining contact until Sherlock relaxed against him. His mouth was sweet, with a distinctive iron aftertaste.

John pulled back. "All right, then?"

Sherlock nodded, then extended his arms to envelop John. He pressed his face into John’s hair, breathing deeply. "I may need to create another annex to store these new observations."

"Another annex? You mean in your brain?" John asked.

"Of course."

"A whole annex just for me?"

"It will be your fourth, actually. Your behavior during intimate moments is the last major gap in my knowledge about you."

"And you're a dedicated completionist, are you?"

"Always. You don't know how often I wanted to do that to you in the last year," he purred. "It was maddening."

Christ, the last _year_? John knew he had been thick about a great number of things, but somehow he had completely missed his flatmate's explicit interest in him. Or perhaps he _had_ noticed, but willfully suppressed the clues. "That long?"

"For those sorts of thoughts, yes," Sherlock said. "Other realizations arrived... far earlier. I've lived a long time, John. It's quick to tell when I meet someone important."

John reached up to slide an arm around Sherlock, rubbing him apologetically. “I’m sorry it took me so long. I’m sorry we couldn’t do this sooner.”

“All that counts is I have you now,” Sherlock answered, “and I don’t intend to let you go without a fight.”

John's heart wrung painfully in his chest. “We’ll be fine," he said with hollow certainty. "We always are.”

Sherlock pressed his cheek against John's forehead. "I'm sorry that I upset you. I didn't know what else to do."

"The best apology will be to not do it again," he replied, nudging him affectionately.

Sherlock didn’t answer, just tucking further into John. He held onto Sherlock for a long while, stroking his back and trying to avoid thinking about all the doubts and fears simmering in the back of his mind. There would be time to worry, later, but for now he just wanted to bask in this quiet moment with the love of his life.

His eyes felt increasingly heavy with drowsiness. Sherlock breathed quietly, a gentle rise and fall beneath John's hands.

“You don’t need to stay all night. If you have work to do, that's fine,” John said, softly distant.

“As distracting as it is to have you lying next to me, I still think more efficiently with you nearby,” Sherlock replied against him. “Although, thanks to the numerous images you’ve so graciously provided this evening, I will be fortunate if I’m able to think of anything else at all."

John smiled and closed his eyes.

“Go to sleep. I’ll be here.”

John drifted to a satisfied sleep knowing, without a doubt, that it was true.


	5. Investigation

The first week was particularly difficult.

Their initial brief feeding in front of Nathaniel proved to be the extent of Sherlock’s limits. At the end their second feeding, Sherlock gradually acquired a strained, queasy expression. He insisted he was fine, but John, thankfully, was experienced enough with the visible signs of nausea to know he wouldn’t be keeping it down. John barely dragged the stubborn vampire to the loo in time for him to retch violently and expel it all.

It was a typical response to ingesting a toxic substance. Regardless, they diligently continued feeding on the prescribed schedule, hoping the medicinal herb mixtures would help Sherlock acclimate to the blood. After a few tries, it was still of no use; anything beyond a few drops of John's blood sent Sherlock into the bathroom to vomit.

John started sitting with Sherlock in the bathroom during each feeding so he wouldn't have far to move. He fed from John’s wrist because, as Sherlock said, the veins were smaller than in John’s neck and he could better control how much he consumed.

The control didn’t amount to much. Every time he finished, guiding John's arm away from his mouth with an irritable frown, the familiar sickly discomfort settled over him. Sherlock grabbed onto the toilet then, heaving and shaking and trying futilely to keep the contents of his stomach from resurging. One hand always remained clamped to John’s forearm, an unshakeable hold until he was forced to drop it and brace himself as he was sick. After he was done, Sherlock would sit back against the bathroom wall, sweating and pale, and down a small serving of bagged blood to recover. He couldn't handle much more, with a roiling digestive tract.

They experimented with mixing a bit of John's blood into the bagged stuff to see if Sherlock could ingest it more easily, but it only left him with far more fluid in his stomach to be expelled when he inevitably became sick. Another idea was chasing John's blood with an anti-emetic mixture of herbs, but that did little to help either. During most feeding sessions, John was simply left to sit on the tiled floor next to Sherlock and rub his back as he draped over the toilet and waited for the nausea to pass. It frustrated John that he couldn’t do much else.

Three days in, John was growing extremely worried. He insisted Mycroft call the herbalist when Sherlock started showing signs of delayed response and aversion to drinking even regular blood. He was probably dehydrated, although John wasn’t sure whether vampires suffered from that particular affliction.

Nathaniel returned and made some adjustments to Sherlock's prescribed dosages. He appeared concerned upon hearing of Sherlock's violent reactions to the blood, convinced that the herbs should be doing the trick to prevent illness. It was especially bad that Sherlock's body was rejecting the blood rather than digesting it fully. His resistance would not improve if it could not settle in his digestive tract.

The newer blends proved better suited to the task. For the rest of the week, rather than vomiting, Sherlock experienced debilitating stomach cramps after each session of feeding on John. He would spend several hours lying on the bed in their room, folded in on himself with a heated compress held to his abdomen. John stayed with him through it all, trying his best to divert Sherlock's attention and ignore his low, pained noises as his body slowly accepted the blood.

John knew Sherlock was at his worst when his eyes watered uncontrollably and his limbs shook with shallow tremors. Sherlock usually closed his eyes at those times, and asked in a wavering voice for John to tell him something interesting. John, upright next to him on the bed, would launch into one story or another, either from his time in Afghanistan or at university. Sherlock had already heard most of his stories, of course, but he seemed to enjoy them despite the repetition. Perhaps it was just John's voice that he wanted to hear, a focal point beyond the pain. By week's end he was gradually increasing his dosage of blood.

John, for his part, couldn't help but feel incredibly guilty. Even if it wasn't his fault, it was still his blood and his Immunity that was causing Sherlock pain. No matter which way he looked at it, John knew he was slowly poisoning his partner.

When he was back on his feet between bouts of sickness from the blood, Sherlock wandered the drafty halls like a slender shadow and complained incessantly about everything and everyone in the manor. The choice of wallpaper, the shortcomings of the maids, the abysmal décor. Even the overcast weather, despite its helpful role in blocking the harsh rays of the sun.

He should have been raging at the true causes of his suffering; John, Mycroft, the entirety of vampire culture and tradition. He left those topics notably out of his restless ramblings, and somehow that made it all the more difficult for John to bear. When it came time to feed from John again, Sherlock stopped his sour words and drank as much as he could handle, then stubbornly endured the resulting pain.

John wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry at the thought of it. Mostly, he was touched by the attachment that Sherlock placed on him.

 

\---

 

John sat against the headboard with his knees up, an old discolored book propped against the angled plane of his thighs. He flipped through a few pages with his left hand, glancing across uneven lines of archaic typeface. Earlier, he’d asked one of the maids for any books on vampire physiology in the house. This was the only one she’d brought him. It appeared to have been written sometime in the 1800s, back before even human anatomy was fully understood and therefore not entirely helpful. Weren’t there any vampire physicians? Did everyone just rely on herbs and spells?

He sighed, quietly closing the book and setting it aside on the blanket covering the bed. He would’ve stretched further to place it on the bedside table, but his right hand was currently buried deep in soft, dark curls and John was loath to break contact. He glanced over at the still figure sprawled next to him.

Sherlock, defeated in his recent confrontation with sleep, lay limply on his side atop the sheets. John’s right hand continued its soothing strokes in his hair, although in his slumber Sherlock no longer registered the touch. John had been wondering when he would succumb to sleep. After so many difficult days, it seemed his body had finally given over to exhaustion and forcibly shut down despite the pain.

His hands still clutched the knitwear-lined hot water bottle against his abdomen. John gently extricated it from his grasp, feeling its sides and determining it had cooled long past its usefulness.

John pressed a hand to the vampire’s forehead, finding it slightly cool. Despite his extensive medical knowledge, he still felt mostly useless. If Sherlock were human, his temperature would be frighteningly low. Within the realm of hypothermia, even.  But, oddly, during the hour or so after he fed his body burned with heat as if he had a fever. The huge swing in temperature baffled John. Even though Sherlock insisted it was nothing to worry about, he couldn’t help but listen to his instincts and remain skeptical.

John was tired, too – mostly from staying up with Sherlock and trying to tend to his needs despite the overwhelming ineffectiveness. He was a caretaker at heart, and he couldn’t sit idly by while someone suffered. Especially if that someone was Sherlock.

Besides, there wasn't much else to do here. No mobile phones, no computers - no wireless electronics of any kind. If Sherlock were up and moving regularly, it would be hell on earth for him. Apparently, the council watchers guarding the property had denied them those devices. The house wasn't equipped with much technology, either; Mycroft was an old-fashioned sort of fellow who didn't like advanced electronics disturbing the peace of his home.

John pressed a hand against Sherlock's chest, feeling for his heartbeat. It was low and steady, as was his breathing. He'd probably burned through most of the blood, by now, and would hopefully achieve some uninterrupted rest. Finding Sherlock unconscious was like spotting an endangered snow leopard in the wild. John had no intention of waking him.

Strangely, when asleep, Sherlock didn't really look like a vampire. Not that he always did when awake, but the calculating intelligence behind his eyes was often clue enough. It was one of the reasons John hadn't had difficulty believing it was true, when he was first told. Sleep wiped away that obvious brilliance, though, and Sherlock just appeared so very... human.

Not for the first time, John found himself wondering what Sherlock had been like, before. He imagined a bright young Victorian man, eager to prove himself and curious about the workings of the world. Did he suspect what he would become? Did he seek it out? The years changed people, and Sherlock had seen more than John could ever hope to. Somehow, he didn't think his Sherlock was all that different from the one who grew and aged so very long ago.

John's stomach gurgled, breaking the silence of the moment. He blankly considered when it was that he last ate. Time was losing its meaning, here; it was a cycle of dark and darker. The only true indicator of its passage was when Mycroft sent regular meals up for him. John vaguely recalled some sort of meaty stew earlier in the evening, but evidently it hadn’t been enough. He needed to keep his strength up, because Sherlock's pain would be worth nothing if he couldn't produce a steady supply of fresh blood.

John slipped out of bed, straightening his jumper as he stood on the cold, wooden floorboards. He had taken to wearing long-sleeve shirts to hide the tender redness of his wrists. Sherlock alternated between them, but the skin was raw and incredibly itchy from healing. When he noticed Sherlock staring with just a bit too much remorse, John decided it would be better if he removed the evidence from sight.

Once Sherlock had overcome the steep learning curve of digesting John's blood, he ramped up in quantity with impressive speed. The small veins in John's wrists were quickly becoming inefficient for feeding. John had suggested several times that they switch to his jugular, but Sherlock was adamant that they should use the safer location until it was unfeasible.

During the last feeding, the cramping set in before Sherlock could finish. He doubled over in pain and John had been forced to wrestle him still, keeping his bloody wrist pressed to Sherlock's mouth until he drank through the agony. That had decided it. After a frustrating argument with a half-delirious Sherlock, they’d agreed to start neck feeding the next evening.

John found his hard-soled slippers next to the bed and toed them on. Turning and tugging up the displaced covers, John hoped that his exhausted vampire wouldn’t wake to find him missing. He’d probably immediately deduce where John had gone by one ridiculous observation or another, but he still didn’t like the idea of Sherlock waking up alone. John leaned across the bed and brushed through his hair one last time, pushing it back from his face.

“I’ll just be gone for a short while,” he whispered in apology.

Then, gathering up the antique book and fabric-covered hot water bottle, John quietly departed and left Sherlock to sleep in peace.

The corridors of the manor, although darkened even during the day, took on a truly eerie atmosphere at night. The air seemed heavier, a dense weight pressing down from all sides. John pattered down the carpeted hall, passing between glowing islands of low lamplight that didn’t seem to break through the shadows along the ceiling.

Most of the staff was human, and therefore slept on regular schedules. The halls proved long and empty as he wandered. Everything looked slightly different in the dark, and he hadn't memorized the various routes to and from certain locations. John came across a spiraling staircase lined with a carved banister of dark wood. It wasn’t the one they’d climbed on their first day here, but he figured it would lead to the bottom floor and therefore closer to his goal.

John hadn’t ventured outside their assigned wing of the house, but he knew the kitchen was located in the central region. He headed in that direction, hoping there might be some indicator that could help pinpoint the exact location. Almost every room he passed was dark and seemingly empty, doors either closed or yawning open into pitch black. He wondered what this house must have been like during its prime. If it ever _had_ a prime.

He entered a long, looming hallway. Down towards the middle, a wedge of yellow-orange light flooded out from a partially-ajar door. Twin voices drifted through the air, singing a soft, scratchy operatic duet through an old phonograph. Curiosity getting the better of him, John cautiously approached the open doorway.

Inside was a large study. Probably the one Mycroft had mentioned earlier, given that the elder Holmes was standing stoically at the far end with his back turned to the door.

John silently peered around, staying to the doorway. The walls, floor to ceiling, were lined with expansive shelves and weighed down by thick, hand-bound books. A broad desk with accompanying lamp sat in the middle, papers stacked on top in an organized fashion. A few leather chairs for reading were positioned on the expensive-looking imported carpet next to the ash-strewn fireplace.

“I always preferred Wagner’s operas,” Mycroft said suddenly, gesturing to the phonograph by his side. “Unfortunately, these old recordings do nothing to match the power and beauty of the original performances. I attended the grand premiere of this one in 1865. _Tristan und Isolde_ at the Munich Opera.”

John stepped inside the room, resettling the objects in his arms. “Isn’t that a story of ill-fated lovers who die in one another’s arms?”

Mycroft switched off the record player, finally turning to direct a forlorn glance at John. “Yes.”

“Do you often listen to depressing operas alone in your study?” he inquired, offering a sardonic smile.

Mycroft tilted his head contemplatively. “It’s become a habit, as of late.”

The vampire crossed the breadth of the room and came to stand before John, clean and orderly in his pressed suit. Mycroft glanced down curiously at what John held. “How is Sherlock? Not come to deliver ill news, I hope?”

“Not tonight. He’s asleep upstairs. I was off to find the kitchen, actually, but since you’re here… do you have anything more accurate?” John asked, handing the book over to Mycroft.

He examined the cracked spine with amusement. “Harvey’s _Observations on the Vampyr Condition_. Are you looking to treat my brother, Dr. Watson?”

“I would feel better if I had some inkling as to how his body works. I might be able to help him more. He’s got all the right parts, but they function so very differently.”

Mycroft frowned. “I’m afraid there isn’t much else. Books regarding vampire physiology, culture, history – everything, really – has been outlawed as long as our species has existed. It was critical that we not produce material evidence of our existence. Most knowledge is passed orally by an initiated few, or not at all. Several courageous vampire scholars, like Harvey here, wrote in secret despite the danger. Vampires consider safety a far higher priority than documenting the intricacies of our society.”

“There must have been something during the seventies,” John reasoned. "Humans were positively fanatical."

“Many humans attempted to write definitive volumes. None came close," Mycroft explained. "We keep our secrets, John. The elders were very untrusting of those so-called allies to the vampire community and made sure that the most threatening voices were quietly stifled.”

John shook his head in frustration. “How am I supposed to help him?”

“Sherlock is a curious person, and I’m sure he’s become bored enough over the years to thoroughly experiment on his own physiology. He is probably your best source for what constitutes ‘normal’ and ‘abnormal’, at present,” Mycroft advised.

John sighed deeply. “Perhaps I’ll have to write a book myself, when this is all over.”

Mycroft's eyes narrowed dangerously. “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” he warned.

“Why not? Is this about shutting me up, still?” John asked, indignant.

“The council does not allow any information to reach the general population without their consent. Every detail, every aspect of our lifestyle is painstakingly released only when it is advantageous to do so.”

“Yeah, I’m sure they planned their grand reveal so _rigorously_ ,” he replied sarcastically. “Everyone knows it was an accident, that picture in Normandy.”

“A hero preserving life during a hellish war? Restoring hope where none survived? I can’t think of a much better time to reveal our existence than during the most critical invasion in all of the Second World War,” Mycroft said calmly.

John stared disbelievingly at him, mouth falling open. “You're saying they- they planned it all? They must have known what would happen, the backlash-“

“We play a long game, John. A _very_ long game. As I told you,” he offered knowingly,” _cats and dogs_.”

John blinked a few times, absorbing. “Most of the people who work here are humans,” he argued. “You can’t tell me they don’t know anything. That they don’t talk.”

“I assure you, they would not be employed here if we weren’t sufficiently convinced of their silence.”

“You’re controlling them, then? Threatening them?”

“Influencing them, you might say.”

John straightened slightly, unconsciously bringing his right shoulder forward in a defensive posture. Mycroft maintained steady eye contact.

“You’ll find the kitchen further down the hall. Third door on the right," Mycroft told him with a falsely polite smile. "Choose something nutritious, won’t you? After all, your diet is now Sherlock’s diet.”

 

\---

 

Miraculously, the evening chef was in the final stages of cleaning up the large kitchen when John wandered in. She introduced herself as Lenore, a robust, middle-aged woman harboring a no-nonsense attitude and a clear command of her domain. She took one look at John's weary demeanor and rumpled pyjamas, then directed him to sit at one of the empty wooden stools lining the massive wood-block worktop.

“So you’re the one that can’t be turned?” she inquired, intuitively knowing he had come looking for food. She swung open the door of the refrigerator.

“That’s what they tell me,” John answered, setting the cold water bottle on the counter. He leaned an elbow on the worktop and settled his chin against the palm. "You're human?"

Lenore scrounged around in the refrigerator, pulling out several plastic-sealed packages of blood. "Someone's got to feed the masses, and it bloody well won't be the vampires doing it."

John laughed in a tired fashion. "Worked here long?"

The chef emerged, returning the blood bags and shutting the door, and placed a carton of eggs next to the stove. "Oh, my whole life," Lenore said. "My whole family, in fact, for the past six generations. Most of those here are legacies from back in the old days."

She set about preparing some scrambled eggs. As the chef worked, John became even more curious. "So you've known Sherlock and Mycroft your entire life, yeah?"

"Oh, yes." Lenore chuckled a bit cryptically. "Their mother, too."

"You mean their sire? I thought sires were male."

"It doesn't make any difference, male or female, for vampire sires. We knew her as Mummy, growing up. Very reclusive, very old-fashioned, she was. Very old. Influential." She glanced at John. "The Holmes lineage was proud and extensive, once. Times have changed, with her passing."

"Mycroft's still proud," John observed. "Sherlock, too, in his own way. What was he like, when you were younger?”

“Sherlock wasn’t often around when I was a kid,” she mused, stirring the food. “We were used to their kind, but he scared us. Sweeping in and out at all hours, never bothering to say hello. Oh, and the fights. He and his brother would have the loudest rows you’ve ever heard. It’s an odd thing to hear a vampire lose his temper. Always calm and collected, they are.”

John smoothed a hand across the worktop, sweeping off a few crumbs. “And... does anyone know how Sherlock was turned, by chance?”

She shook her head. “It happened long before most here were born. Before our grandparents were born, too. It's not widely known among the staff. Mycroft knows, I imagine. Sherlock never told anyone, as far as I know, but then he's never been one to tell much of anything, really.”

"Not surprising. He's stubborn about certain things. A lot of things, actually."

“He's always been apart, alone. Off attending to his own business." She deposited the eggs onto a plate. "That's why we were so surprised to hear he was bringing a human home to bind with." Lenore placed the plate and a fork in front of John, inspecting him with extreme interest. “It’s very much the opposite of the staff’s perception of him.”

"I'm beginning to see that," John replied.

A far door swung open, and a dark-haired woman entered carrying a large leather bag. When she noticed John seated in the kitchen with Lenore, she stopped in her tracks.

"This is him?" she asked Lenore, coming closer and setting her heavy bag on the floor. She wore multilayered bangles and charms hanging from linked metal necklaces and bracelets. Her dress was dark and draped tightly over her slight frame, covered by a warm fur-lined cloak. With her chin-length hair, she reminded John of women from the 1920s.

The chef nodded. She looked at John. "Esther, our spellcrafter," she explained.

Esther had a slightly ashy cast to her olive skin. She studied John with sharp brown eyes, one hand toying with a bauble on her wrist. She was quite pretty, appearing to be no older then her late twenties. A year ago, John might have made a fool of himself trying to flirt with her.

"You're a vampire?" John asked, as politely as he could manage.

She silently nodded, then crossed to the nearby counter and flipped open the lid of the egg carton. Removing one, she sidled around the edge of the worktop and approached him.

Suddenly, she slammed the egg down on the wood surface, smashing it open. The chef shouted in shock, but John barely flinched at the abrupt action.

"Christ, woman! Give us a heart attack, why don't you?" Lenore berated.

Esther didn't pay attention to the chef, still staring at John. He looked right back, wondering what the devil she was doing. Yes, he definitely would have made a fool of himself with her.

Two of her fingers slid through the splattered yolk, then rose up to press against his forehead. Esther muttered under her breath, and John felt an odd wash of warmth pass through him. It spread like a shiver from her sticky fingers down through his body, then back up.

"You are a resilient one," she said finally, dropping her fingers and relaxing her expression.

John shook out his limbs, trying to banish the strange sensation. "What did you just do?"

“Took a reading." Esther smirked a little as the chef began clearing up the scattered pieces of eggshell. "It's important I gauge those I am to craft spells for. The stronger the effect of the spell, the more difficult the preparation." She glanced at the bag she'd brought. "I am already preparing for your binding. It helps to have a sense of both participants' energies." She raised her chin, peering at him again.

John shifted his eyes. "Anything interesting?"

"A significant portion of your emotional and psychological energy is centered on Sherlock,” Esther revealed. “You are similar in that regard. I foresee no trouble for the binding.”

“Why would we have trouble? It’s just a spell, isn't it?”

“A binding strengthens what exists, but it does not create a union. There must be a true pull, a connection, however small. Binding will not work unless it is already there, within both parties. If there is no inherent magnetism, you cannot artificially create it. It's more difficult than ensnaring.”

"Sorry, what's that?" John asked.

Esther raised an eyebrow, as if this was elementary knowledge. "Exercising one's will over a human."

"Mind control?"

"More or less. Ensnaring is similar to classic thralldom, or the imposition of a vampire's will upon a human's mental state. It's how vampires, in the past, maintained servants and feeding stock. Every human here is ensnared to the family, prevented from divulging their secrets."

"You?" John asked, looking at Lenore. She nodded in confirmation.

"Binding has a similar element, but it's such a strong connection that compulsion cannot be forced. It's a two-way street."

"Sherlock will be able to control me?"

"Not without your consent," Esther replied roundly. "I wouldn't leap to condemn it, as it is what has saved your life up until now. You will be unable to discuss anything you have learned these past weeks. The truth of the dangerous nature of your blood will go with you to the grave. It's remarkable that the council was willing to take such a chance. Nearly unheard of, although I suppose Mycroft's personal involvement may have pushed them over the edge. He still has some small influence."

John scrubbed at his eyes. It really was far too late and he was far too tired to deal with this right now. He would be having words with Sherlock, as soon as the man wasn't bedridden and caught in the throes of poisoning. Which, to be honest, may be a state he never actually recovered from.

"We'll sort that out once we actually come through it all," John said with resignation. He glanced at his food, untouched. He didn't feel all that hungry anymore.

"All that uncertainty... I don't envy your task," Lenore consoled.

"We don't have a choice," he replied. "Well, _I_ don't have a choice."

“Sherlock has made a dangerous decision in agreeing to bind you, John,” Esther concurred. “You must be very special to him.”

John watched her, grimacing a bit. Special. That was one word for it. By any measure, Sherlock should have handed him over the moment he found out about John's condition. He should have cut his losses and spared himself the risk. It was the only logical thing to do, the only rational thing.

But here they were, forced into a desperate corner with only one way out. Sherlock - the most logical, rational, calculating person he knew - had weighed his choices and deemed John worth the risk. The profundity of that idea was not lost on John.

He pulled the plate of food closer. He needed to eat, no matter how he felt. Sherlock was counting on him to stay strong and endure the feedings.

"Have you ever been fed on? From the neck?" John asked Lenore, taking a bite of his meal.

The chef laughed coarsely, leaning against the counter. "No. Feeding on the hired help is generally frowned upon, these days."

"We're starting tomorrow." John looked at Esther. "Any advice?"

Esther fell into a deep introspection. "It's a very primal, intuitive process for a vampire. Let his instincts guide him; he won't naturally seek to injure you. You only need focus on your own reactions. Do as he says, and you'll be fine."

John swirled his fork through his eggs, considering. There must be some way to make it more personal, more meaningful. An opportunity to signal the shift in their lives that the binding would herald. John would be tied to Sherlock for the rest of his life, and it was long past time he tried to bring their relationship back on track. A grand idea struck him.

“I could use your help, if possible,” he requested, glancing between the two ladies. "I have a vampire to woo."


	6. Satiation

John returned to the bedroom that night to find Sherlock still trapped in the clutches of sleep. He checked Sherlock’s vital signs with a few quiet presses and, reasonably satisfied, laid down beside him in the large bed. The sheets were icy cold, so John curled up next to Sherlock until the temperature rose to a bearable level. The warmth had to feel pleasant to a vampire, didn't it? Sherlock's tranquil face gave away no sign.

John soon joined him in slumber. When he awoke in the morning, the detective was long gone.

He found Sherlock sequestered in the spare study he had rigged to function as an impromptu laboratory. It was only outfitted with a few critical pieces of equipment scrounged up from storage, but out of the random parts Sherlock had managed to assemble a grid of antique copper and glass apparatuses into a basic testing facility. Testing what, John was unsure – but he noticed several slides scattered around the tabletops that were mounted with blood samples. Sherlock had proudly told John his paraphernalia was a vintage set from the turn of the 20th century – his, to be precise. An old gift from Mycroft. Sherlock looked like an eccentric Victorian professor as he bent over the antiquated brass microscope, though John supposed the modern pyjamas were a bit anachronistic to the image.

John pointed out that it was time to feed once again, but Sherlock bluntly refused him. Eyes pressed to the microscope, he explained that he wouldn’t partake in the afternoon, either, in order to build up a proper thirst for later in the evening. They were about to cross the threshold to Sherlock surviving on John’s blood alone, and the detective wanted to ensure that nothing went awry.

Freed of the burden of looking after Sherlock, John spent the day exploring the house under the pretense of mapping the various rooms and hallways. In reality he was checking on his plans for the evening and getting last minute help from the staff. It wasn’t fancy, what he had organized, but he hoped it would make things just a little more special.

When evening fell, John carefully opened the door to Sherlock's makeshift lab and stuck his head inside.

Sherlock paced distractedly across the shadowed room, hands folded meditatively in front of his face. "Time already?” he asked when the bar of light from the hallway hit him.

“Yes. Come on,” John invited. He opened the door a little wider.

Sherlock followed John out the doorway and into the hall. “I’ve been thinking, John. It might be best to engage in four feedings per day rather than three. I would take less blood each time, but keep the same cumulative daily total. Such a scenario would be more manageable for your recovery. Losing larger amounts puts you at risk for shock.”

“As long as it’s safe for both of us, I don’t see why not,” John answered as they walked.

“Safe is a subjective term, at this point,” Sherlock mulled darkly. He suddenly noticed which hallway they were in. “You're taking me to the sitting room. Why?"

John smiled mysteriously.

“We should go to the bedroom, John," he suggested. "The sigils on the walls will make this easier.”

“Easier is a subjective term,” John retorted. “I’m getting sick of that room. There are too many unpleasant connotations. We’re starting fresh.”

They reached the door. John allowed Sherlock to pull it open and lead the way inside.

Sherlock immediately stopped when he confronted the contents of the room. A low fire crackled in the massive stonework fireplace. Several pieces of furniture, including a plush couch, had been arranged in a squared-off pattern in front of the fire. A coffee table in the middle was laid out with linens, glasses, silverware, and a single set of dinnerware with lid. A bundle of Nathaniel’s herbs and vials sat close by, along with a mortar and pestle.

John closed the door and circled around to stand alongside the couch. Despite the room's gargantuan size and gaping darkness, the smaller section felt cozy and intimate.

Sherlock stared in confusion at the spread. "What's this?"

"Er... a sort of dinner date, actually,” John admitted, smoothing a hand over the arm of the couch. "Chicken for me, and... well, me for you. With a side of herbal supplements. It won't be pleasant, but I thought we could start off your new diet on the right foot."

“You prepared this for me?” Sherlock said. He appeared greatly taken aback.

“Well, yeah. I had some help from the staff, but… yeah,” John answered, glancing anxiously at the set up. “For us. Our first date, actually, if you think about it. We’ve sort of come the long way round, but here we are.”

Sherlock watched him blankly for a few moments. He made no motion to sit or come to John, just looking straight at him. God, had this been a bad idea? Sherlock didn’t do dates. Of course he didn’t. He was the antithesis of the traditional dating scheme, and not just because he was a centuries-old vampire. As the silence increased, John girded himself to tell Sherlock to forget the whole thing. Then the vampire finally opened his mouth to speak.

“I’m not really dressed for a date,” Sherlock said contritely, indicating his sleepwear attire.

“Oh! Well, that’s fine. Neither am I,” John replied, peering down at his thin jumper and worn jeans. “It’s not a… formal thing. We can be underdressed together, if that’s all right.”

He studied John for a bit longer, then nodded. Right then, John would have paid a hefty price to know precisely what Sherlock was thinking.

They settled side by side on the comfortable cushions of the couch. John unwrapped the bundle of herbs and pushed a few vials of liquid over toward Sherlock. “Mind doing the honors, then?" He pointed to the mortar and pestle.

Sherlock set about mixing his own medicinal remedy. The anti-poison portion, though potent, was at about three-quarters strength by now. They both paid very close attention to his degree of resistance to the blood toxicity.

John uncovered his plate to reveal chicken with assorted vegetables. A high-protein meal with plenty of nutrients to help him grow new blood cells. He wasn’t quite sure how the neck feeding would affect him; Sherlock would be taking much more blood and undoubtedly cause anemia or malnutrition if he wasn’t careful. John’s bodily functions would almost certainly be disrupted, and he was intent on reducing the effects as much as possible. If he was out of commission, who would look after Sherlock?

He glanced over to see Sherlock had finished his work. He held the stone mortar, filled with a darkish grey-brown paste. Sherlock scooped it out with his fingers and swallowed it, then wiped his hand on John’s linen napkin.

“Shall we get on with it?” Sherlock asked, jaw flexing slightly in impatience.

“No reason to rush,” John replied. “I thought we could spend some time together, first. Without outside distraction.”

Sherlock leaned against the backrest. “You mean the distraction of my illness after I feed.”

“I promise I’m not going anywhere.” John glanced at him. “Unless you’re very thirsty. Are you very thirsty?”

Sherlock cocked his head inquisitively and placed a hand on John’s chest. Right over his heart, where Sherlock could unmistakably feel the steady rhythm beneath his ribs.

“Still beating,” John joked awkwardly.

The vampire took a moment to sense it, an alertness growing in his expression. John was suddenly reminded that he was alone in a mostly-dark room with a predator who very much wanted to consume his blood. With the sparse, inconsistent diet of the past week or so, Sherlock was probably desperate for a feeding that would fully satiate him. Something more substantial than the comparative trickle John's wrists had provided.

“I suppose I can wait,” Sherlock finally replied, not smiling. He dropped his hand.

"Good,” said John. He picked up his fork and proceeded to start poking at his food. Sherlock watched him, waiting expectantly for John to say whatever it was he needed to say. He really wasn’t getting the point of the whole ‘date’ idea.

“The grounds here seem lovely, from what I can tell,” John offered. “I think I’d like to see the gardens.”

“I would prefer it if you stayed inside,” Sherlock responded dryly.

John grabbed his knife and starting eating. “Is it really that dangerous, or are you just being overly cautious?”

“We’re only here by the council’s tenuous permission, John. I don’t want to risk provoking them by parading you around. The watchers around the property can see everything except what happens inside the manor.”

“They wouldn’t renege on their end of the agreement, would they?” John asked warily.

Sherlock pressed his mouth into a despondent line.

“Do you think they will?”

“Mycroft says certain influential voices are actively dissenting the decision. Loudly. It’s possible they may convince the elders to reconsider.”

“Reconsider,” John echoed, stiffening where he sat. A chill ran through him.

“If they take you again, it will be permanent,” warned Sherlock. There was a strange timbre to his voice, a thin note that reminded John of spun glass. “But I won’t let them.”

John sighed gently. “You’re not exactly in top form, these days,” he pointed out in a low voice.

Sherlock frowned. There was a juvenile disobedience in his expression, as if he was convinced he could keep John with him through sheer force of will.

“Mycroft is on our side,” John told him in a hopeful tone. “We’ll be fine.”

“Don’t bother saying that for my sake. It’s obvious you don’t believe it.”

John set his utensils down. Sherlock continued watching him, dead certainty in his eyes. Of course, he was right. John was a realist, and he knew their survival depended entirely on the council's good graces.

"Fine. Yes, I think we're in a great deal of trouble with very little control over the situation. Happy?"

Sherlock blinked and leaned in, suddenly. "You never expected to leave this place alive, when we came here."

"Don't be foolish. I don't want to die," John replied.

"No, but you believe that you will."

John unconsciously flexed his hands, then cleared his throat. Sherlock's stare was profoundly accusatory.

"It's similar to when I was in Afghanistan, actually," John explained in a calm tone. "You know the risks, you know what can happen. But you don't dwell on it. You focus on the next mission, the next goal, the next step. That's what's happening here. I'm doing everything I can to make sure we're prepared for the binding. That's _all_ I can do. What happens after that... well, we'll confront it when we get there."

"You're a soldier. You're used to evaluating a situation, John, and your gut is telling you that this is a losing scenario."

"Do you want me to tell you that you're right? Is that it?" John exclaimed. "Yes, I see a low probability of success. Yes, I'm not optimistic. But I soldier on, Sherlock. I don't give up. For you, I don't. I never will."

Sherlock didn't seem to know how to compute that information. John resumed his meal as Sherlock processed. Let the machine sort _that_ one out.

"It's really not fair," John muttered, mostly to himself.

“What’s not?”

John shook his head. "You know practically everything about me. Even things I don't necessarily want to share. You just... read me."

"It's not all that hard," Sherlock replied absently. His eyes widened as he realized what he'd said. "I don't mean that in a bad way, of course, John. You're just naturally honest. You don't try to hide from me. It's odd, but you don't."

John smiled at Sherlock's unwieldy attempts to salvage his words. "You _have_ had a one hundred and twenty year head start in life, so I suppose I shouldn't be so surprised."

"What do you want to know about me?" Sherlock asked, looking away. He picked up the herb bundle and began pulling out dried stalks.

"What?"

Sherlock met his eyes. "Don’t make me repeat myself, John."

John blinked at him. He'd never offered any real morsel of information beyond what John could figure out for himself. Not truly. A hundred thoughts and questions stormed his mind. John needed something easy, something that wouldn't scare him off. "You've never mentioned the past. What you did, where you went. Before we met."

He shrugged. "I stayed in London, mostly."

"Oh, come on,” John chided. “A hundred and fifty-seven years and you just _stayed home_?"

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he began crushing the brittle herbs into the mortar. “I didn’t stay home. I _left_ home. As soon as my sire would allow it, I left.”

“What did you do?”

“I functioned as a consulting detective, much as I do now. A few years here and there, in the different boroughs. London is big enough that I could effectively hide from people who might recognize me. I helped every inept inspector who came along. A great number of private clients, as well.”

“There must have been some exciting cases.”

His eyes brightened. “Oh, there were, John. I’ve never again found a truer test of my deductive skills. Before the advent of DNA tests, before widespread forensics labs and databases, the work was _pure_. I unraveled criminal conspiracies through the superiority of my own logic, by improvising new strategies and methods of investigation.”

It must have been brilliant. Sherlock’s excitement probably shone like the sun. His sense of purpose, his passion… John smiled at the thought. “I wish I could have been there with you.”

“So do I,” he replied. “Many times I wished I’d had someone with me. Someone I trusted.”

“Didn’t you have anyone you worked with?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I never worked with anyone too long, to avoid suspicion. As soon as they mentioned how good I looked for my age, or pestered me about what health regimen I was on, I’d be off.”

"I would have gone to see the world, if I were you. I've had my share of travels, but not to anywhere particularly relaxing or peaceful."

“Peaceful wouldn’t suit you, John.”

He laughed. “No, I suppose I wouldn’t.”

"I made a few journeys to China and Japan to study various martial arts. During the twenties I went to the United States. New York and Chicago. The surge in organized crime was too interesting to ignore. Plenty of work for good detectives, in those days."

"What about during the wars?"

"Nothing particularly noteworthy. Mycroft was engaged in finding and eliminating enemy spies within the British government. I helped, a bit. Much of what we did is still classified. Chased a few war criminals to South America and had them... forcibly extradited. You know, the usual."

“Did you ever hunt?”

John asked the question before he could think to stop himself. Sherlock paused abruptly. There was a solemn look in his eyes as he judged just how much he wanted to tell.

He suddenly pushed the mortar across the surface of the coffee table until it came to rest in front of John. Inside was a greenish mash of his medicinal mixture. The one that was supposed to keep him healthy through the feedings.

Sherlock answered slowly, deliberately. “A few times, yes. Mycroft ensured I was supplied with bagged blood, but… when you’re out on the streets, and you’re tired, and you haven’t fed for some time, it just happens. You get a whiff as a person walks by, or someone cuts themselves and you can smell it from three streets over. I don’t look back fondly on such incidents.”

“Did you kill any?” John asked softly.

He watched John. A flicker of something passed through Sherlock’s eyes, and John thought he understood what it was he saw. Sherlock didn’t want John to be disappointed in him.

“There are two that I know of for certain,” he finally responded. “One was an arsonist. He fell four stories and impaled himself on a wrought-iron railing. He was dying, bleeding out. I was thirsty, so I fed. To this day I wonder whether he might have lived if I hadn’t taken his blood. I doubt it, but I wonder.” Sherlock stiffened. “The other was a serial rapist. I had him cornered. I could have taken him in, let the police handle it. He’d led me on a very long chase through some very sunny areas. I was famished and suffering from radiation burns, and he’d… he deserved to die, John. The things he did, the crime scenes I saw... He lashed out in desperation and I let loose. I ripped his throat out and sated myself on his blood. It was… bad. And a better end than he deserved.”

He looked at John as if awaiting condemnation.

“I probably would've done the same, in your position,” John told him. “Some people are too dangerous to be kept alive. God knows I’ve lived up to that opinion several times over.”

Sherlock's expression softened. “You’ve killed for me. To save me. I won’t forget it, John.”

They sat in silence for a short while. John picked up the mortar and took his dosage. The thick mixture was bitter and very unappetizing, but he downed it anyway. He lifted up his glass of water to rinse the taste out of his mouth.

Cautiously setting the glass aside, he glanced intently at Sherlock. "In all that time, were there others?"

Sherlock creased his brow. "Others?"

"Other vampires, other humans,” John clarified. “Like me."

“You’re referring to someone for whom I held… particular interest?”

John nodded lightly.

"No,” he said, coldness in his voice. “None of significance."

"Sounds lonely.”

Sherlock studied him at length. "It didn't feel so at the time. I suppose it was, though. Now that I know the difference."

His eyes drifted to the side, lost in the distraction of memory. A slight frown tugged at the edges of his mouth, and his features had an uncharacteristically fragile cast to them.

The consequences of the decisions made over decades – centuries, even – was something John knew he couldn’t begin to understand. It was difficult enough living with the failings and regrets of his own comparatively short life. Sherlock’s vampirism was isolating enough on its own, but combined with his natural tendency to antagonize people and push them away… it would be a heavy weight for anyone to bear, no matter how untouchable they thought themselves. Sherlock suffocated his emotions with logic, but they did, indeed, exist. He needed guidance to access them, to see that there might be benefits to reaching out.

That was all right. He had John, now.

John shifted toward Sherlock and touched a hand to the side of his face, grounding him back to the present. Sherlock’s pale gaze, still diverted, flickered back into focus.

“Not ever again,” John said quietly. “Not while I’m here.”

Sherlock’s eyes slowly tracked up John’s torso, across the breadth of his chest and shoulders, past his neck and up his face until their eyes locked. He leaned closer to John, until their faces were only a breath apart. John, mesmerized by the eyes before him, barely felt the hand that enfolded his own.

“John,” he murmured. The name came softly, a hundred subtle meanings embedded in his tone. John barely had time to recognize it before Sherlock tugged him straighter and closed the small distance between their mouths.

John swept both his arms up to encircle Sherlock, holding him tight as he returned the kiss. Sherlock slid his hands tentatively around him. John pressed in harder, expecting to meet an equal return of force, but found Sherlock's usual resistance to be conspicuously absent.

Allowing John's comparatively lesser strength to overpower him, Sherlock sprawled back against the cushion. John grunted into his mouth at the unanticipated impact, but managed to maintain the connection.

He took it slow with his weakened vampire, tenderly insistent as he retraced the familiar lines of his mouth. Sherlock had suffered so much for him already, and they still had nearly three weeks left. John thought of all the painful hours they’d been through together, and all that was to come. Sherlock shivered under his touch, hands gravitating to the warmth of John’s chest.

God, he seemed so cold and just... off, even for a vampire. Like someone coming down with a case of the flu, before they truly became ill. Sherlock let John kiss him hard and long, let him wrap him up in his arms and wordlessly apologize for everything that had happened. He needed this; he needed to show Sherlock what his agony meant. John loved him. He really did, and it was so terribly frustrating to see him hurting so badly. He’d get shot all over again if it could prevent Sherlock from suffering any more.

Sherlock relaxed against him, humming a bit, and John recognized the cracks in his impressive defenses. He was slowly opening up to John. Allowing himself to be vulnerable when they were alone, even if it was only a small amount.

John probed his mouth with his tongue, encouraging him. Sherlock's right hand moved to grip his bicep as if he needed stability against the sensation. John continued on, unrelenting, until Sherlock’s chest was nearly heaving against him.

Suddenly, something sharp and solid met John’s tongue. Sherlock jerked away, breaking off from John and pushing them apart.

John lifted up, giving him some space. The vampire was breathless and pale, and in his open mouth John could clearly see his fully descended canines. By the look of aggravation on Sherlock’s face, he could only guess it was an automatic physical response.

“Thirsty, are we?” John asked teasingly, voice roughened.

Sherlock sighed, monumental displeasure evident as he tested the lowered fangs with the tip of his tongue. “That’s never happened before.”

“Involuntary descent is rare, but perfectly normal,” John said, suppressing a laugh as he hefted himself up and off Sherlock. He rose to his knees on the couch, the vampire following. “I’ve sutured my share of split lips on vampires’ significant others. It means you subconsciously trust me and find me to be a reliable long-term food source.”

It wasn’t just the lowered fangs that gave it away. Sherlock had gained the hard, focused demeanor of a vampire who had located a desirable source of blood. His skin was paler than normal, creating contrast against his features in a way that would be aesthetically pleasing to his prey. The signs were unmistakable: pupils constricted, breathing rhythmic and deep, nose twitching as he smelled the nearby blood. Sherlock’s eyes locked onto John as if he were the only thing in the room. Hunting mode.

John felt transparent, under that stare. "Shall we try?"

Fangs reflecting wetly in the firelight, the vampire nodded fractionally.

“How do you want me?” John asked, voice steady despite the sudden tension in his chest. He became acutely aware of every beat of his heart, every rush of blood through his veins. “Upright, as before?”

Sherlock swallowed tightly, eyes falling to John’s throat. “Reclining would be easiest, I think.”

John set about rearranging the pillows for better support. Sherlock watched every move he made with the precision of a hawk. Would it be this obvious if a vampire wanted to feed from him out in the real world? If a stranger stared at him that intensely, John thought he would probably notice. Vampires were supposedly skilled at blending into their surroundings until they wished to be seen by their prey. Perhaps Sherlock simply had no reason to hide what he wanted?

John settled down along the length of the couch, reclined against the far armrest with Sherlock still perched near his legs. He tilted his head up. “Is this okay?”

Sherlock’s mouth opened, but it was a moment before any noise came out. From this angle, his fangs stood out against the red of his tongue. “Yes, that’s fine.”

He sounded odd. “Are you all right?” John asked.

“Of course,” Sherlock snapped, a little too sharply.

“You don’t seem all right.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, creeping closer across the cushions. “I haven’t successfully fed on a volunteer since 1897. The twelfth of November, specifically.”

"You said you avoid feeding directly from strangers,” John replied.

“The fact of which should tell you just how rarely this opportunity presents itself. It's a very different experience from blood bags. Especially when it's someone with whom you're exceptionally close.”

Sherlock moved into the familiar straddle position that he seemed to prefer for neck feeding. John tried to relax against the armrest as Sherlock’s weight settled over his thighs, but his heart was already skittering in his chest.

“Mycroft said you’ve wanted to feed from me for quite a while,” John ventured, looking up at him.

Sherlock grumbled. “It’s difficult to hide the signs from other vampires.”

“But, you did?”

“I never wanted to force you, if that’s what you’re thinking.” His right hand moved to John’s neck, pressing gently against his skin.

“No, I didn’t think that. It’s… nice to know.”

Sherlock hummed vaguely as his left hand came to rest under John’s jaw, fingers curving up to keep his head still. The other hand smoothed down his neck, presumably testing for an ideal location to bite.

"Your heart is beating faster than the last time we tried," Sherlock noted.

"After what happened, can you blame me?"

"I should've prepared you, before. Told you what to expect." Sherlock pressed into his pulse. His eyes shone a bright silvery blue-green as he examined John. "I was rather excited, at the time. Slipped my mind."

He pushed up at John’s jaw, encouraging him to bend his head back and display his throat more prominently. John obeyed, drawing in a deep breath.

"It will hurt, but the best thing to do is remain as still as possible,” Sherlock instructed. “Your first instinctual reaction will be to flee."

“Don’t worry,” John said, one hand clenching nervously at the fabric of the seat cushion. “I trust you.”

“Humans can’t always control it, John. Years ago I saw a woman panic badly as she was voluntarily fed upon. She tore away from the vampire and split her vein clean open, then bled to death there on the floor in front of us in less than a minute.” His expression turned hard. “Say so _immediately_ if you need me to stop. I don’t want to kill you.”

John brought a hand to Sherlock’s hip. “I will. Although, I think you’ll be able to tell if I’m panicking before I do.”

“Probably, but I’ll have other concerns. Controlling how much blood I take, for example. I can easily poison myself to the point of death if I consume too much.”

"It'll be fine," John reassured. "Do what you need to do."

Sherlock looked down at him, eyes searching for something. "Are you ready?"

John felt a wash of trepidation, but met his gaze steadily. "Always."

Permission granted, a predatory expression broke over Sherlock's face. A smile tugged at the sides of his mouth, although John suspected it was more in anticipation of sating his thirst than a true reaction to the situation. He looked frightening for the brief moment that John saw him, until his face descended down past John's eyesight. The vampire leaned completely over him, shoulders and back of his head invading John's vision.

The hand covering his exposed throat moved aside, sliding up into his hair. John felt gusts of air on his neck as Sherlock brought his mouth close, edges of his curly hair tickling against his jaw. Sherlock inhaled a long breath, smelling for the blood.

Outwardly, John remained perfectly still. Inside, his heart felt like an engine in overdrive, pounding hard against his rib cage.

A soft sensation met his neck, and John immediately flinched underneath Sherlock. After a moment he realized it was only the vampire's lips. A kiss.

"Calm down," Sherlock directed, a rumble above John's chest. His mouth brushed against him with every word. "Your blood pressure is too high. I don't need you hemorrhaging out the moment I bite."

John closed his eyes and drew in a series of deep breaths. As he did so, the hand in his hair moved in a gentle caressing pattern. He felt his heart rate slowing a bit, although still noticeably elevated.

"There we go, nice and relaxed," Sherlock said.

"Easy for you to say," John complained, opening his eyes. "You're not the meal."

"Shh. I need to concentrate."

The mouth at his neck spread apart, and two points of pressure pushed into his skin. After a brief stretch of tension John's skin broke under the fangs, razor-sharp edges digging into his flesh.

The bite was only moderately unpleasant at first, but then the fangs tore through his soft tissue and sank into his jugular vein. John gasped loudly at the sharp pain that stabbed through the side of his neck, and immediately convulsed.

Sherlock was right; the sensation of needing to flee was incredibly powerful. He felt as if he were a small animal caught unexpectedly between a predator's jaws, an overwhelming message of _get out get out_ flashing a red alert in his mind. Sherlock quickly brought the hand in John's hair to his shoulders and pressed him down so he didn't dislodge the fangs. John managed to suppress his reaction to a few turbulent shudders, which were efficiently absorbed by Sherlock's body. Clearly, he had experience managing panicked humans.

Sherlock clamped down and held until he stopped twitching, reminding John distantly of a snake he once saw kill a desert rodent while out on patrol in Afghanistan. Is that what it looked like from the outside?

Once John stilled, the bloodletting came. Sherlock relented in the force of his fangs, and John sensed the internal pressure in his jugular dropping as the blood was released. He heard Sherlock repeatedly swallowing as he steadily consumed the outflow. The bite was wet and painful, but more of a numb pain as when impaled with an unmoving foreign object. Sherlock made small adjustments, shifting his body and angling his head for better position as he drank. He kept John pinned down to control any unanticipated movements.

Feeding from the neck, as opposed to the wrist, allowed vampires to fully sink in their fangs rather than merely cutting the skin and letting their prey bleed. The deep intrusion provided the opportunity to introduce an enzyme that created a sedative-like effect in their victim, stemming resistance from unwilling humans and allowing them to feed unmolested as long as they needed.

John felt the first waves of the compound hit him like a very mild anesthetic. His heart rate slowed its erratic pattern, calming to a normal pace. The joints of his fingers ached as he released his death-grip on Sherlock’s shirt. Funny... he hadn't realized he was holding on.

A small fluttering sigh passed John’s lips as the tension uncoiled from his body. The hand against his jaw flexed and slid away at the noise, trailing down to cradle the side of his head. Sherlock's body, growing increasingly heated as he fed, spread as a warm weight over him.

It was intensely intimate. Astoundingly so. John had never felt more exposed to anyone. He was both emotionally and physically at Sherlock’s complete mercy, and he didn’t feel the need to resist or try to fight him off. Instead, John trusted. He gave over to the confidence he held in Sherlock, the person for whom he would give everything he had for as long as he could. Sherlock echoed the feeling in the way he firmly yet gently held onto John, the obvious caution he took in feeding from him.

"God, Sherlock," John choked out, head swimming. His vision wavered as he succumbed to the pure dedication reverberating between them.

The vampire's body thrummed above him with revitalized energy. Sherlock started moving, a sort of rhythmic sway affecting every part of him except where they were connected. John reached up to soothingly hold onto his waist, concerned that he was already in pain or experiencing a bad reaction.

Sherlock tensed at his touch. A strained sound resonated in his chest, and John grew even more worried. The vampire continued moving in that odd way, rolling and flexing. John finally realized, with a warm surge of affection, that the movements were originating from his hip joints. His body was trying to find friction, and Sherlock was holding it back. He was becoming aroused from feeding on John.

John slid a hand up and around his back, until it rested on the base of his spine. He pressed down, informing Sherlock that it was all right to make contact.

It didn’t take much effort to convince him. With a throaty whimper, Sherlock spread his knees and dropped his hips. He pressed his pelvis low against John's, firmly grinding against the material of his jeans. The friction rippled through John, and with a strangled moan he pushed back against him. Sherlock held tighter onto his upper body, keeping John still so the fangs embedded in his throat wouldn’t cut him open.

The double stimulation of the mouth on John’s neck and the forceful sliding against his crotch was almost too intense. His brain buzzed and blanked, taking its toll on his cognitive responses. Sherlock breathed heavily through his nose in bursts of cool air against his neck. John grabbed at the back of Sherlock's thighs, providing resistance so he could push harder. John instinctively rocked up to meet him as much as he could, but as the sedative steadily built up in his system it became more difficult to react.

His body grew heavier, a weight that he could barely induce to stir. His hands dropped and Sherlock continued stimulating himself against John's unmoving form, rutting as he drank. After a short time his motions, too, became intermittent. They died down completely as a faint trembling superseded them. John's blood was already adversely affecting Sherlock, undoubtedly more efficient than a cold shower in suppressing his physical urges.

John felt like he was floating. The pain in his neck dissolved away. It was replaced by a long, wet slide of Sherlock’s tongue as he deposited saliva to close John’s wounds.

Sherlock was huffing, but no longer from arousal. John turned his head, beyond malleable, to watch the pain rise in Sherlock's eyes.

"Bad?" John asked thickly.

"Not good," Sherlock answered, heaving a bit. He looked at John with a worryingly open expression.

John raised a heavy hand, guiding Sherlock's head and bringing their mouths together. The tang of iron was fresh on his tongue.

They parted. "I'm sorry," John whispered.

Swiftly sitting upright, Sherlock pressed a hand to his forehead. He briefly closed his eyes and swallowed several times in quick succession, as if fighting his gag reflex. He appeared terribly pale, gasping deeply a few times. When he lowered his hand, it shook noticeably.

John still felt remarkably lethargic. He blinked up at Sherlock until the blurriness in his vision filtered away.

Sherlock watched him in return, breathing ragged as he tried to control the need to purge the toxic blood.

"That wasn't so bad," said John. His words sounded strangely gummy. "See? I told you it would be fine."

Sherlock didn't seem to be listening. Something hard and quite disturbing had settled in his eyes.

He leaned over John again. “Hold still,” Sherlock ordered, so breathily it sounded almost a growl.

Before John could say anything, the fangs were back in his neck. John jolted slightly, but the leftover sedation was sufficient to keep him mostly still. This time, there wasn’t the sensation of blood being drawn from his body.

A hot, searing burn poured into his vein. It was liquid fire, scorching and spreading along the canals of his body. John shouted and pushed weakly against Sherlock, but the vampire's strength was incalculable and John still suffered from the tranquilizing enzyme.

Within a minute, it was everywhere. Every muscle in his body, every vein and artery, was a convulsing trail of pure torment. Sherlock held him down, fangs removed from his neck, as John screamed.

It was blinding. It was consuming. John lost all sense of time and place, mind turning inside out until there was nothing left but the agony. It rocketed through his nerves, grasping deeply at him from every angle. An hour, a minute, a year passed until he careened over the crest of pain. He came down, lower and lower until he could finally hear and see again.

Gradually, the direct pain faded, although John's muscles still spasmed with the memory. He lay in a stunned fog as his senses reformed. 

Sherlock lay completely on top of him, shaking, with his forehead pressed to John’s. His arms were wrapped tight about John, keeping him in a snug hold. John grunted as the last of the agony disappeared as quickly as it had come.

Sherlock shifted his head slightly. “I had to know for sure. I _had_ to know,” he whispered in the darkness between them. His voice was haggard. “It would solve _everything_.”

He retracted off of John, a long viscous line of clear fluid stretching between his mouth and John's neck until it broke. The same substance, tinged a slight yellow, coated the inside of his mouth around his fangs.

"What...?" John managed, regaining control of himself. His blood vessels tingled.

Sherlock wiped the back of one hand across his mouth. He looked immensely disappointed.  "That was your body neutralizing and absorbing vampire venom."

“That was... your venom?” John asked, horrified.

"Quite a lot of it, actually." Sherlock sat up, pale and quivering.

“You bloody bastard! You tried to _turn_ me without asking?”

“Don’t be stupid, John. My venom isn’t potent enough to turn someone, yet,” Sherlock berated tiredly. “The ability to sire new vampires comes with maturity. This was just a test.”

John scanned him up and down. “You’re an adult.”

“I _was_ an adult human,” Sherlock corrected, wobbling a bit where he sat. “I’m now an adolescent vampire. Nathaniel looks to be around sixteen, but he is extremely mature. He could turn dozens of humans in one go, if he wanted.” He looked depressed, suddenly. “I can’t even turn one.”

John eyed him. "Then how do you know it wouldn't work?"

Sherlock trailed a hand down his face. "Because you would still be screaming. For hours, until my venom broke down on its own in your bloodstream."

“And what would you have done if that was the case?”

Sherlock tilted his head. “We have anti-venom. I would've considered whether to retrieve it or call Mycroft to come finish the job.”

John felt his anger flaring. He didn’t really want to become a vampire. If it was the only way, then maybe, but not if he could avoid it.

There might be benefits, he supposed. He would get to be with Sherlock for the rest of his exceptionally long life. John always avoided thinking about what would happen when he inevitably died and Sherlock was left on his own again. The idea was too distressing to entertain. If he could stay alive for centuries just for Sherlock’s sake, would he do it? He wasn’t sure.

John forced himself upright on frail arms and compulsively reached for his neck. It was sticky with saliva, blood, and venom, but there was no open wound.

“No more experiments, no more potentially changing my entire life just to satisfy your curiosity,” John reprimanded harshly. “You need to ask me when you do this sort of thing. I mean it, Sherlock.”

Rather than answering, Sherlock suddenly braced against the back of the sofa and grabbed at his abdomen. He bit back a groan as the first pangs of cramping set into his body. John sighed and allowed his irritation to dissipate. Castigating Sherlock in the midst of his recovery from feeding was an exercise in futility, as the vampire would be unable to respond coherently.

"Come here," John said, shifting away and guiding Sherlock down into a horizontal position. They wouldn't be moving from this spot for the rest of the night. "I'll go find your hot water bottle."


	7. Penance

The first time John lost himself, he was staring up at a thousand tiny stars.

The pinpricks of light danced against pure, seething darkness. Slivers of moon peeked here and there, disappearing one moment only to reappear somewhere else in the dark. Mesmerized, John attempted to count the vibrating forms. They wove fluctuating constellations in the great emptiness, taunting him with the impossibility of the task. 

“John?”

Sherlock's voice pierced through his concentration like a honed blade. The deep resonant tone shattered the delirious ballet, summoning John back to himself. He registered the hardness of his seat, how his head had fallen back so that he faced upwards.

Above him, there were no erratic stars or moons. Instead, a decadent silver light fixture protruded from the wall. Lights twinkled and reflected off the polished metal, stark points of contrast against the dimness of the ceiling. They were unmoving, and far fewer than John’s mind would have had him believe.

"John? Are you all right?" he heard Sherlock asked again.

He recalled pressure on his neck, and accompanying pain, but the sensations were no longer present. With significant effort, John forced his head to tilt forward so he could properly see Sherlock.

The expensively upholstered chair in the corner of the sitting room wasn’t the best place to feed, but Sherlock hadn’t given him much of a warning. On the table next to John, his hastily bookmarked copy of _The Count of Monte Cristo_ sat unattended, having been thrown aside to make way for the vampire. Sherlock had switched off the nearby lamp in an effort to speed his cooperation. At least John had the foresight to make Sherlock cover the silk embroidery with his dressing gown, lest they accidentally stain its antique surface with his blood.

Since the initiation of neck feeding six days earlier, Sherlock had become curiously punctual. No matter where John went, Sherlock always managed to rapidly track him down when it was time to feed. Sherlock barely allowed John enough time to brace himself against whatever piece of furniture happened to be nearby before launching on top of him for a good long drink.

But then, the detective always possessed a staunch meticulousness when it came to matters of precise scientific inquiry. Sherlock went about his business with the air of a scientist at work, armed with several small notebooks for cataloguing observations. He developed a habit of methodically jotting down his notes after he finished feeding, muttering to himself as he filled in time-tables and measurement charts. With such thoroughness, John was half-convinced that Sherlock intended to publish a formal research paper.

The sensual energy between them, so strong at first, had faded as a habitual cycle fell into place. The loss was compounded by the wearying pattern, with one of them usually tired or achy or inconvenienced. The exchange remained pleasingly intimate, but more in a comforting way than anything else. John didn't miss the eroticism. Not with four bloody feedings a day.

This one was the last for the evening. But it was also different than all the others; John had never before lost focus to the point of hallucination.

Sherlock, one knee on the seat of the chair, towered over John in puzzlement. His fangs were slowly ascending into their dormant position. John met his eyes just as the vampire reached out to press his hand into John’s neck. He felt the pulse and bent lower for a closer look, a flood of concern on his angular face. “Are you feeling ill?”

John felt... hollow. Detached from himself. A fine mist floating up and away, weightless. With every breath, John's lungs fought to resist the movement of his diaphragm. 

A wash of chill swept through him, causing him to involuntarily shiver and clasp a hand over the arm of the chair. Sherlock's eyes flickered around at the small movements. John imagined he appeared rather glazed. “Just… light-headed," he finally answered. "More than usual.”

An expression of resigned distaste sank into Sherlock’s features. They both knew it wasn’t a symptom of the natural sedative produced by Sherlock. After the first few jugular feedings, the effects of the protein had diminished markedly in John as he acclimated. It was now nothing more than a quiet calming buzz in his body during each feeding. 

Sherlock’s hand drew up to briefly cup John's jaw before sliding away. He straightened. “We’re pushing into dangerous territory. It’s only going to get worse, before the end.”

"If it gets much worse, I won't be able to maintain a reasonable blood volume," John replied calmly. He watched Sherlock with intent. They would clash over this issue more than once in the days to come. It was inevitable.

The vampire at least had the decency to look distressed. He shifted back and pulled off the chair to give John a bit more breathing space, but the stiffening of his shoulders and set of his jaw were unmistakable indicators.

John’s health had already begun deteriorating with surprising speed. Sherlock took increasingly sizable amounts of blood four times a day, but even with the carefully paced pattern John’s body struggled to compensate. He took his herbal concoctions like clockwork, even supplementing them with extra vitamins and minerals, and chugged water like a man who hadn’t seen it in a year. His efforts had kept him ahead of the curve, barely replenishing what was taken. In the end, it was a losing battle. There was no question that John would soon fall behind.

He was tired, now, most of the time. It was the bone-weariness he often saw in hospital patients undergoing extended chemotherapy or dialysis. He slept poorly, suffering from periodic tachycardia and prolonged restlessness. In the middle of the night John often woke with sudden chills or the feeling that every article of his clothing was pressing down and constricting his breathing. During the day he caught brief naps when he could and prepared for the moments Sherlock would walk through the door looking to feed. All he could do was hold on and endure until the end.

It was bad. Medically, he knew beyond a doubt he should be in hospital. If someone else were showing even half his reported symptoms, John would've manhandled them into an ambulance without a second thought. Especially if it was someone like Sherlock, who actively ignored his own health issues.

As John declined, though, Sherlock seemed to recover. In a curious reversal, Sherlock’s cramping after feeding had progressively diminished each day until he no longer suffered from the crippling episodes. John could see the washed-out discomfort that remained, but it wasn't strong enough to interfere with his daily functions. With his new John-only diet, Sherlock’s body was adjusting to the toxicity with startling efficiency. He spent a majority of his time in his makeshift lab, now that he was able, doing God-knows-what.

As improved as Sherlock seemed, John suspected much of it was superficial. Anyone who looked close enough could see that the detective's other symptoms hadn’t abated.

The faint shaking in Sherlock’s limbs never completely stopped, even in between feedings, and his skin had faded from its usual pale ivory to a pallid hue that reminded John of a corpse. By comparison, the other vampires he’d seen glowed with abundant health. John also caught him staring blankly into space with increasing regularity. It was a far different expression from Sherlock's intentional delving into the deep recesses of his own thoughts. John nudged him until he came out of the worryingly vacant stare, usually with no recollection of the interim period.

Sherlock’s gaze was perfectly keen now, as he evaluated John in the chair. John pressed several fingers into the skin of his right hand, noting with dismay how the whitish imprints didn’t recede as quickly as they should.

“Perhaps I should get blood transfusions,” he suggested.

Sherlock immediately shook his head. “No, John.”

“Then at least plasma or a saline drip.”

" _No_ ," he countered obstinately.

John frowned and narrowed his eyes. Sherlock was quite touchy when it came to subject of John's blood and what he was allowed to put into it. The vampire barely approved of the vitamins. Not that John bothered to listen to his whinging; he needed the supplements and that was that. He'd held off on any medications, though, because of Sherlock’s far more vehement reaction to the subject.

"If I don't get something to replenish my blood volume, there's a very real chance I will enter hypovolemic shock and die, Sherlock," John argued. "Unless you have an ambulance on standby, I doubt I'll be around for the binding."

Sherlock snapped his dressing gown off the back of the chair in one quick flourishing motion, then shrugged it on. “We’ll make do. We can’t befoul your blood with outside substances. It will disrupt the development of my resistance and possibly sabotage our whole endeavor.” He reached down to help John as he struggled to stand.

Clambering to his feet, John held onto Sherlock’s arm for balance. “It’s going to get bad.”

“I’m aware," he said with quiet certainty. The unwavering line of his eyesight told John that he meant it. "Come along. I’ll return you to the bedroom.”

John grimaced. Their room was now ground-zero for Esther's preparations for the binding ceremony. The spellcrafter was taking no chances and leaving no stone unturned when it came to ensuring their safety.

New symbols on the walls overlapped the old ones every time John returned to the room, and he'd found odd pieces of shell and feather wedged under the doorjamb and inside the window frames. The day before, Esther had burned a foul-smelling bundle of roots until a smoky haze filled the entire room. She said it was incense, but John had coughed and gagged and decided it was most definitely _not_. He suspected the scent would linger for the rest of the week.

Even Sherlock admitted he was unfamiliar with some of her more arcane efforts. Truthfully, John did breathe easier in the room. He didn't know exactly how the spells were supposed to affect him, but there was an undeniable boost (placebo effect or otherwise) from being there.

But not tonight.

“I’ll stay here, thanks,” John replied coldly, pulling free of Sherlock's grip. He scooped up his book and slowly sojourned over to one of the more comfortable couches.

Sherlock watched him go. “You’re still angry.”

Yes, yes he was. After six days, Sherlock was no closer to understanding why it was _wrong_ to involuntarily inject venom into your partner and just _wait to see what happened_.

“Why in the world would you ever think that?” John responded sarcastically, sinking down onto the cushion with a sigh. His muscles were starting to hurt. Not the pain of exercise, but something deeper, as his body strained under the effort of functioning with too little blood.

The vampire circled the couch like a pale shark in the middle of a vast, dark ocean. He folded his arms behind his back. “How else were we supposed to know for certain that your Immunity inherently precluded turning? Empirical proof is always preferable to-”

John raised a finger to interrupt him. “I know you don’t have any qualms about testing your theories on me,” he stated matter-of-factly, “but that was really, _really_ not good, Sherlock.”

“I wouldn’t have tried it if I thought there was even the slightest chance my venom could actually turn you. I’m not stupid, John. I know you wouldn’t choose to be... this," he explained, indicating himself.

John folded his arms and slumped back.

Sherlock made a low noise of annoyance. “All right. If it really upset you that much, perhaps I can make it up to you.”

"An apology would be a good start."

"I already apologized."

"But you're not _sorry_ , Sherlock. Don't pretend you wouldn't do the exact same thing if confronted with that situation again."

His eyes blazed with outrage. "I'm trying to save your life, John. All options are on the table when it comes to that. _All_ of them. Everything."

"Have you ever heard the phrase 'a fate worse than death'?” John inquired acidly. “Perhaps you should look it up before making any more inane statements in front of me."

Sherlock turned away, sneering. He paced back and forth several times. "Something else, then," he murmured. "I'll make this right."

“How?” John asked.

 “I’ll have to think upon it.” He stopped and glanced over. "I'm not sorry, John, but don't confuse lack of remorse in this particular instance for a lack of concern in general."

At that point, John knew he had received as close to an actual apology as he was ever going to get. Sherlock stubbornly studied him from several feet away, his arms behind his back. Even from this distance, John detected the now-commonplace tremors running through his shoulders and down into his arm joints. They subtly undermined the vampire’s attempt to appear intractable.

The tremors, always more pronounced in the hour after feeding, were an infinitely better representation of Sherlock's commitment to John's well-being than anything mere words might possibly convey.

John had never seen him so unsettled by a situation. The detective was confident at the most gruesome of crime scenes and in the face of the most dangerous of felons. It was a game for him, a thrilling distraction, because he always considered himself above everyone else. The master of his environment.

This was how Sherlock reacted when things went too far. A quiet, desperate focus on the task at hand. Improvising solutions no matter the cost. He was scared and worried, and there was nothing either of them could really do.

John felt a pang of hurt again, but this time it wasn't physical. He stretched out his arms, and almost immediately Sherlock was at the side of the couch. He tugged the vampire down next to him and brought him into a tight hug.

He was still marvelously warm from the recent feeding. John let Sherlock drape over him, face hidden in the crevice between John's shoulder and the backrest, and raised a hand to the back of his neck.

"You're a magnificently stubborn arse, sometimes," John prodded in a low voice.

Sherlock shifted a bit. "With your shining example, how could I be anything but?"

"Are you suggesting that _I_ corrupted _you_?"

He turned his head. "John, you are the most deceptively stubborn person I've ever met."

"Deceptive?"

"You accommodate others to a point, but it's as if digging through several meters of soft dirt and suddenly hitting steel. One thinks they are winning, with you, until they're inexplicably not. It's maddening."

John laughed aloud. He couldn't remember when he had last genuinely done that, so he laughed again. Sherlock soon joined him, chuckling deeply until John could feel it where their chests pressed together.

"I suppose that's what it takes to handle you," John pointed out drily as soon as they’d stopped. Sherlock hummed a vaguely bemused response.

Something buzzed. The sound was so unfamiliar that John looked about in confusion until Sherlock reached into the pocket of his dressing gown and produced a mobile phone.

John stared in shock as Sherlock rolled out of his grip to study the display. “Is that a phone? Where’d you get that?”

Sherlock swiped through several of the screens until he found the message. “Where else? Nicked it off Mycroft. He barely uses it, anyway.”

John rose up from his relaxed position and leaned into Sherlock's space, trying to see. “Did you talk to anyone? Mrs. Hudson must be so worried-“

“I took care of it, John," replied Sherlock without glancing up.

He lurched forward again. “And Greg, he probably doesn’t know-“

“I took care of it,” Sherlock reiterated, pushing him away. "I can't contact them directly, or else they'll be put under observation. It's a delicate matter, but I assure you I've sent indirect messages to everyone who needs to know. It's fine."

"Then who are you contacting? The homeless network?"

"Among others. It's difficult.” Sherlock began quickly typing out a text message as he spoke. “All incoming and outgoing calls and messages are continuously monitored. I need to communicate in code, so it's slow."

A smile formed on John's lips. "You're planning something."

"It's unfeasible to plan anything major with our restrictions as they currently stand," Sherlock corrected, quirking an eyebrow. The phone chimed as the message was sent. He slipped it back into his pocket. "I'm only preparing for contingency circumstances. My hands are tied, but there is some measure of wiggle room. We're not entirely helpless."

John settled back down. "Well. I'll be ready, whatever you're thinking. Just say the word."

"I know you will, John. I can always count on you."

 

\---

 

The next morning, John was caught by an unexpected sight as he emerged, robed and toweling his hair dry, from the steamy bathroom.

Sherlock stood waiting for him in the middle of their room, outlined against the mid-morning glow of the shrouded windows. He wore his usual suit – the first time John had seen him fully dressed up since they got here – with his scarf and coat over one arm. The light caught his features as he turned; unearthly skin, dark umber curls, irises radiant as cut crystal. John was immediately disarmed.

Sherlock smiled at him. “Get dressed.”

“Are we going somewhere?” John asked apprehensively. He tossed his towel back through the open door of the bathroom. He’d hang it up soon enough – even with maids around, he didn’t like to create an unnecessary mess.

The detective casually adjusted the coat in his arms. “No need to be nervous, John. It’s nothing bad.”

“The last time you told me to get dressed and come with you, I was imprisoned by hostile vampires,” John pointed out. “I’m not doing anything until you tell me what’s going on.”

Sherlock gave a withering look. “I promised I’d make things up to you. We’re going out.”

“Out _where_ , Sherlock?” he demanded.

“Out together. Isn’t that enough?”

Employing his nascent deductive skills, John eyed Sherlock's freshly-pressed suit and immaculately clean shoes. "Is this... are you taking me on a date?”

“One does not _date_ , John," replied Sherlock in a haughty tone fit for a prepubescent. "It is a pedestrian term for a pedestrian era.”

John regarded him evenly, attempting once again to observe what was really going on. Sherlock’s posture was stiff, proper, and overly formal for the occasion. Even with the look of mild irritation, he appeared every inch a gentleman of class and stature. One who was waiting impatiently to escort his intended-

“Oh my God,” John said as the epiphany broke over him. ”You’re trying to court me. That’s what this is, isn’t it?”

Sherlock shifted self-consciously and tilted his head. “That depends. Will it stop your brooding?”

“I’m not _brooding_.”

“Well, I’m tiring of your ‘not brooding’. We’re going for a walk.”

“Outside?”

“Yes,” Sherlock sighed, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I recall you previously expressed interest in seeing the gardens. Wear something that isn’t entirely appalling, if you would.”

“What does it matter? I think we’ve broken quite a few rules of Victorian courtship already,” John replied, suppressing a laugh.

“It matters because if we’re going outside, then I fully intend to show you off to our captive audience.” Sherlock smirked. “And if you’re particularly concerned I might assail your virtue, we could always request Mycroft act as our chaperone. He's never lost his nostalgia for safeguarding a damsel’s honor.”

John, through a colorful array of swear words, invited him to wait in the hallway outside. Sherlock went, but John heard him intermittently chuckling to himself as he changed into more presentable attire.

When they reunited, Sherlock appraised his jeans and cardigan with a skeptical eyebrow. He sighed laboriously, which told John his clothing choices were either flirting with insufficiency or, in comparison to the other possible options, a small victory indicating his fashion sense wasn’t completely repulsive on this particular day.

Once he put on his coat, John noticed with dismay that his muscles already ached from his minimal exertions. It wasn’t yet noon, for Christ’s sake. This would need to be a short walk, or he might not make it back on two feet.

Sherlock seemed to sense the early presence of John’s failing energy. He watched every one of his steps with precision while escorting him through the manor corridors.

They eventually emerged outside onto a lovely broad terrace that overlooked the various sections of the grounds. In the summer months, John estimated it would remain shaded from the sun even in the afternoon, allowing the vampires to enjoy the day without being burned. The sky was overcast now, but Sherlock kept the collar of his coat raised up to block out any extraneous rays.

As soon as John felt the first gust of fresh air blow past his face, he drew in a deep cleansing breath. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed going outside. Birds chirping, leaves rustling in the wind, the fresh smell of the natural world… it was wonderful.

Sherlock sniffed briefly at the air as if he didn’t quite trust it. Natural lighting always emphasized his paleness, but as he blinked in the daylight John was struck by how agonizingly wan he appeared. Then again, he doubted he looked much better.

John glanced toward the far boundaries of the property, but with all the greenery it was difficult to tell where the Holmes estate actually ended. He couldn’t make out any figures of those who were supposedly watching them.

"We can't see them, but I assure you they can see us," Sherlock said, catching his line of thought.

They stopped at the edge of an elegantly curved stairway that led down to the gardens. John scanned the grounds from the elevated position. Almost immediately, he could tell that the gardens were intended to receive far more attention than its caretakers currently afforded it. Several trails disappeared into bulging copses of leafy bushes and flowering trees. Here and there, man-made statues and benches festooned the lawns, but others were in the process of being overgrown by foliage. Directly in front of them, row upon row of casually trimmed hedges stood sentry between them and a pale grey stonework structure. It was a distance away, but John could tell the sides featured flourishing geometric masonry and carved embellishments.

“What’s that building?” John asked.

Sherlock offered out his arm in a supremely Victorian gesture. “Mummy’s mausoleum.”

John was reluctant to be patronized by such an old-fashioned offer, but it would be far more damaging to his ego if he toppled down the stairs out of sheer pride. He wove his hand into the crook of Sherlock's elbow. “That’s for one person? It’s enormous.”

“It would be, knowing her.”

They started down the stone stairs. John caught himself on Sherlock's arm after only a few steps and grunted in aggravation. He'd patrolled kilometers of Afghan desert for months on end, and now he could barely negotiate a simple staircase?

“Mummy had quite the eye for architecture," Sherlock explained as he guided John down the steps. "She began construction on it decades before her passing. It’s made of imported Italian marble over a reinforced-steel frame. To last for all the ages to come, she said. As if anyone could ever forget her.”

“It sounds as if she was an impressive woman.”

“Imperious, I would say. The word you often use in conjunction with me.” Sherlock smirked as they crossed out onto the soft-packed earth that formed a footpath through the lawn. He gave John an evaluative glance as he led him toward the tall hedgerows. “She would have liked you, I think.”

John flexed his fingers against the fabric of Sherlock's coat. “Is that good or bad?”

“Both. She would have liked what you symbolized, I should say.”

“What do I symbolize?”

"That I’m accepting my proper role and developing a household of human subjugates." They passed into the opening of the hedge. Once inside the shaded corridor of stiff leaves, Sherlock visibly relaxed. “It’s the first step toward becoming a sire. The capacity to support your clan lineage is essential.”

John frowned at him.

“Oh, don’t look so put upon," Sherlock scoffed with exasperation. "I don’t intend to take any others, after you. She would’ve had a coronary when she found out.”

The thought of Sherlock feeding on anyone else bothered John. Weeks ago, Sherlock had asked him whether drinking someone else’s blood would be considered cheating. At the time John hadn’t had a firm answer. Now that he knew how truly intimate it felt, John would absolutely not stand for it. But, there were only so many reasonable expectations you could place on someone.

"I won't begrudge you others after I've... gone,” John compromised. “Monogamy is for the living, isn't it?"

A hard expression surfaced on Sherlock's face. He gazed at John with implacable eyes as they walked. "There won’t be anyone else. Nor any sired offspring. I'm quite decided on that, John.”

John felt surprisingly relieved hearing that, and then immediately guilty. He didn’t want Sherlock to be alone, if at all possible. Not for the first time, he found himself wishing, somehow, that there was a way to prevent the long loneliness that would almost certainly haunt Sherlock for the rest of his days. If their positions were reversed, John couldn’t imagine living without him. The one person more essential than breathing. He would suffer all the jealousy in the world if it meant Sherlock’s happiness after he passed.

“I suppose you have plenty of time to consider your options,” John said diplomatically. “She really expected you to procreate?”

The vampire nodded. “Mummy held… specific aspirations for her dear children. Dreams of a thriving lineage and all that rubbish.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’ll leave such business to Mycroft. He’s the one with the inclination for establishing a legacy. Not to mention the estate to support it.”

“Why hasn’t he turned anyone?” John asked, ignoring the ghastly mental image of fanged children frolicking in the garden.

“It’s complicated. There are a limited number of licenses for turning humans every year, though I doubt Mycroft would have difficulty procuring one if he wanted. Searching for a suitable candidate would take far longer. My brother, as with our sire, maintains certain standards for the family line. Honestly, I think the primary reason is he’s busy. Busy working, busy poking his nose into our business. Tending to a newborn vampire is time-consuming, and he’s all alone.”

“There’s the staff,” John suggested.

Sherlock laughed aloud. “Believe me, John, the last person you’d want caring for a newborn is a human. New vampires have no self-control and placing them in the care of walking feasts is asking for trouble. Mycroft would be waist-deep in corpses by week’s end.”

They emerged into an open area encircled by the tall hedges. In the center, a neatly groomed rose garden lined with a wrought-iron trellis provided a dazzling burst of color. Of all the plants John had seen, the delicate roses appeared to be tended with a painstaking care unseen elsewhere in the garden. The blooming buds ranged in color from creamy whites to soft pinks and luscious reds. John got the feeling that this was an area of the garden with particular importance to its caretakers.

Sherlock led him to a nearby stone bench. They sat down together, and John let the level seat re-stabilize his balance. He huffed a few deep breaths to help oxygenate his overworked blood cells, but it still felt like a lead weight sat upon his chest. Frustration filled him that his body refused to function properly. Sherlock kept his arm captive, holding it close against the folds of his coat with gloved hands.

Sherlock remained silent for a long while. His eyes were locked onto the flowers, but John could tell he wasn’t actually looking at them. Their sweet, cloying scent was faint on the air. The bristly hedgerows acted as a decent blockade, protecting the blossoms from harmful gusts and ensuring the smell wasn’t lost on the breeze.

"This is where I would have asked you,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Hmm?” John replied. He turned away from the roses to look over at Sherlock.

There was acute fragility in his expression. “When you were ready, I would have brought you here and asked."

John smiled and leaned against him, sliding his trapped arm down until he found Sherlock’s fingers and interlaced them with his own. "Asked me to bind, you mean."

"Asked you to stay. And yes, to bind. I had it all worked out. A plan."

“I wouldn't expect you to care about making anything official,” John conceded.

"It's not about that. This isn’t a human civil union or marriage. It’s not a little piece of government paper informing us that our relationship has been deemed ‘legitimate’, whatever that means. What we’re doing is more important. Life-changing."

“Explain it to me, then.”

Sherlock released John’s hand and rose from the bench. He walked closer to the rose bushes, wandering back and forth in a contemplative manner before turning to look at John again.

He clasped his hands behind his back. “It doesn't take a neurosurgeon to know a diet of blood can’t possibly provide all the nutrients a living organism needs to survive.”

"I've wondered," John replied, crossing his legs and settling back.

“It’s not the blood itself that sustains a vampire, it’s the vitality captured within it," Sherlock explained. "Human blood is infinitely more potent than that of any other living creature on the planet. Humans are, all of you, self-replenishing founts of unimaginable energy. And yet, you are unable to tap that potential."

Sherlock stepped in front of John and reached out to request his right hand. John obliged, placing it in Sherlock's palm, and the vampire immediately felt for the pulse at his wrist. "It’s our most precious resource. We crave it. We use it. We _need_ it. To connect oneself to a human is to tap deeply into their energy and personally claim it."

He released John's hand. "Long ago, binding spells were used to create mindless servants out of humans. As no human in their right state of mind would voluntarily give over their life in service of a vampire, they were mesmerized to do their master's bidding and remain loyal. Keeping a stock of humans allowed vampires to avoid openly hunting as well as maintain a comfortable lifestyle. As human society evolved, there was more certainty and safety in venturing outside. Vampires chose to leave the dens and integrate. These were the first to value humans above their usefulness as a food source or as slave labor.”

"There's a difference from what you'll do to me?" John asked uneasily.

“An incredible difference. Taking a thrall is a very simple process, John. The only inherent danger is in accidentally spoiling the human. Leaving them an empty husk, for example, or similar terrible ends. Vampires think of them as disposable resources. I don’t know who first thought to experiment with the connection between thrall and master, to manipulate it into something more, but that person was incredibly brave.” He gazed at John. “I imagine they had found someone worth the risk.”

Sherlock sat down next to him on the bench again, lit with conviction. “To bind a human, at its very core, is the act of blurring the lines that separate you from the other person. It is to allow yourself to need someone, to make them so essential to your existence that there can never be anyone else. It is to remove your heart and soul and allow it to walk alongside you, in plain view, with all the danger that entails. In return, you find a completeness, a wholeness. It is an act so powerful that it cannot be undone. It is not a tool for control, but a way to forge the purest of all possible links."

That sounded incredibly frightening, and yet Sherlock seemed excited. The more John thought about it, though, the more he realized he was already involved in a scenario very similar to the one Sherlock had just described. How different could it be from how he currently felt?

There was another issue that still plagued him, though. “I spoke with Esther, before," John disclosed distastefully. "She said the compulsion is still part of it. The mind control.”

“John, I hope you know I would never use that to harm you," Sherlock replied, placing a reassuring hand on his arm. "It will merely provide a guarantee to ensure your silence. You’ll know what limits I’m placing on you; it doesn’t work unless you let me do it. Bound humans aren’t meant to be thralls. They’re meant to be companions. You’ll have as much effect on me as I do you.”

John eyed him skeptically. "Any other side effects?"

"Yes, there will be effects. Feeding from you will improve my abilities. I'll be stronger, sharper. When I alter your blood to make you receptive to the binding, you will also inherit certain traits of my species. One is particularly noticeable. You won't live longer than a normal human, but you will gain a shadow of my timelessness. You'll look as you do now until your natural death."

John gaped. "I'll not age?"

"Not visibly," Sherlock concurred.

"Christ, you didn't think this was important to mention earlier?"

Sherlock creased his eyebrows in mild confusion. "Not really. It’s not a problem anymore. Before vampires were known to the world at large, it meant a life-long cloistering of the bound human so that no one would become suspicious."

"You've really forgotten what it's like, haven't you? Aging?" John asked in disbelief. He studied them both, taking it in. “We’ll be like this, then. For the rest of our lives.”

"For the rest of your life, yes," he confirmed. "That’s not all, though. I said you will gain my traits, and that includes sterilization. Vampires cannot breed in the traditional mammalian way. Only through turning can we create other vampires. You will become sterile as well."

"I suppose that’s not a terrible thing, seeing as I’m already barred from having biological children,” John reflected. He coughed from the tightness inside his chest. “Are there downsides for you, as well?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Nothing important. Your appreciation for bad television programs, perhaps, if I’m unfortunate."

"Sherlock," he chastised. His fingertips started tingling, and he flexed his hands to get rid of the feeling.

"Well, I suppose there is one thing," Sherlock admonished. "As part of the deal with the council, I am completely responsible for you, in their eyes. If anything goes wrong, I will share in your fate."

"All the more incentive to make sure everything goes _right_."

The muscles in John's chest suddenly constricted, clenching tight as a series of intense palpitations bombarded his heart. He jolted, and with lightning speed Sherlock was pressing his open hand against the front of his cardigan. Sherlock held him upright as his blood pressure fluctuated wildly. John's mouth fell open, air trapped in his locked lungs, as the irregular beats of his heart stuttered and pounded to find their rhythm. It was over after only a moment, but John was left seeing dark spots over most of his vision. Once control of his breathing returned, John panted sharply into the fabric of Sherlock's coat.

The vampire waited as John's vital signs steadied, hand still splayed on John's chest.

"Cardiac dysrhythmia," John explained dully. "From low blood volume and poor oxygenation."

Sherlock's other arm circled around his shoulders. "How often?"

" It happens at least once a day. Had one early this morning, too."

"I didn't see it," Sherlock replied with disconcertment.

Of course he hadn't. John was in bed while it happened, and it was unreasonable to expect Sherlock to do anything as boring as wait around while John slept. _Tried_ to sleep. He'd already accepted that there would be many lonely nights as long as they were together.

"You couldn't have done anything," John consoled. "Either we're doing this or we aren't, Sherlock. Risks and all."

There was quiet for a few minutes. John could almost sense the heaviness of the thoughts shifting in Sherlock's brain.

"I think it's time we got you back inside,” Sherlock said softly.

He helped John to a standing position and offered out his arm again. John grabbed hold, breathing deeply and establishing his balance.

He took one last look at the beautiful roses. The place that was for some reason special enough to Sherlock to bring John there and ask one of the most important questions of his life.

"I would have said yes," John said distantly. The petals on some of the larger buds fluttered in a new gust of wind, but none broke.

Sherlock seemed to be inspecting John for signs of more cardiac trouble, not listening. "Yes?"

"If you asked me to stay," John said, pulling on his arm until Sherlock was focused on the present conversation. "If things had gone... differently. I would have said yes. I'm saying yes."

Much of the tension in Sherlock's body language just sort of melted away, as if he'd been carrying a heavy weight that he was finally allowed to drop. Strain remained near his eyes, though. "You don't have a choice, John," he said, voice equally taut.

"I'm making it my choice," John replied with strength and clarity. "I want this. I want you."

Sherlock didn't say anything else. He watched John with softening eyes, then gently tugged him back the way they had come through the hedges. Sherlock was quiet for a long time as they walked. John bathed in the silence, comforted in knowing everything he said was absolutely true.

When they popped out of the opening in the hedges, two familiar figures were posed at the foot of the stairway to the upper terrace. John could clearly see Mycroft’s amused face as he spoke to someone with their back turned to them.

“-I’ll just wait, then," the other was saying cautiously, recognizable coat and grey-haired head bobbing in front of Mycroft.

“Greg?” John called in amazement, arm slipping out from Sherlock's elbow. He smiled as Lestrade turned around, looking relieved. They met him halfway across the lawn, and John jovially clapped the officer on the arm. "What the devil are you doing here?"

"Police business." Lestrade looked from John to Sherlock, and as he absorbed their appearances his face shifted into abject horror. “Jesus. What’s happened? You both look bloody awful.”

“A private matter, as I told you, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft interjected, manifesting behind Lestrade like a well-dressed phantom. “And I would appreciate your confidentiality in regards to anything you see here.”

“I think he’s supposed to be my escort,” Lestrade divulged to John, glancing over at the elder Holmes.

“You’d probably get lost if I let you wander. We don’t need you running into the security team again,” Mycroft replied coolly.

“They let him in?” John asked.

Mycroft nodded. “The Detective Inspector is graciously consulting on several important legal matters.”

“Did you receive my message? Did you bring them?” Sherlock inquired abruptly.

“Yes, in fact,” Lestrade answered with annoyance. The officer's familiar expression of inconvenience reminded John of happier times, when his main concern was dealing with Sherlock's antics.

Lestrade dug around in one pocket of his long coat until he brought out a pair of handcuffs. John recognized them almost immediately; they were vampire handcuffs. Far stronger than ones used on humans and almost impossible to break. Police-issue only.

Sherlock took them with glee, tugging on the chain to test the durability.

“A 'thank you' would be nice, but I don’t foresee hell freezing over anytime soon,” Lestrade complained. “I expect those back, Sherlock. They’re very expensive and if I don’t return them-“

“Yes, you’ll get them back, Lestrade,” Sherlock said dismissively. He stuffed them into his coat.

“Sherlock, a word,” Mycroft requested, raising an eyebrow.

Sherlock sighed painfully but did as his brother asked. As they went aside, Sherlock kicked reproachfully at the dirt with his clean shoes.

“Really, are you all right?” Lestrade asked John as soon as the others were out of earshot. “I know you can take care of yourselves, but I’ve met homeless addicts who looked healthier.”

“Not really, but it’s not… it’s fine. Don’t worry about it. What’s this about consulting for Mycroft?” John deflected.

Lestrade folded his arms. "Did you know he’s come down to Scotland Yard four times in the last two weeks? Barges into my office like he owns the place and demands to see all our files dating back almost one hundred years. Bloody vampire.”

“What does he want with the files?” John inquired.

“He said he’s trying to figure out which cases Sherlock has helped with over the last century. Something about presenting it to someone… I have no idea. I stay out of vampire business, as a rule. Not that Mycroft makes it easy.”

“Did Sherlock say what he needs the cuffs for?”

Lestrade appeared mildly disturbed, glancing over John. “He didn’t tell you?”

“No, this is the first I’ve heard of it.”

“Oh. I thought... with you off on holiday together…” Lestrade coughed a bit awkwardly. “Uh. No idea, John. A homeless woman passed me a note from him a few days ago asking to have the handcuffs ready today. One of Mycroft's people collected me this morning, and here I am.”

“You came all the way from London?”

“I didn’t feel comfortable giving them to anyone but Sherlock. We can’t just hand out items like this to anyone who asks. I thought he had a case on. A criminal he might need to restrain, that sort of thing. Then we arrived here at this grand estate and I assumed… well, it doesn’t matter what I assumed.” He looked away uncomfortably.

John felt his face flushing. “Ah. No. I doubt he had… that… in mind.”

The vampires finished their little pow-wow and separated like oil and water. Sherlock had a scowl on his face.

“Since you’re here, Detective Inspector, won’t you stay for tea?” Mycroft asked politely, brushing off one of the sleeves of his suit jacket. “I have some inquiries relating to my investigations.”

Lestrade eyed him distrustfully. “Vampires don’t drink tea.”

“Hmm. Perhaps I can find a more suitable beverage for myself,” Mycroft said, extending an inviting hand toward the house. His smile was unnerving."Come. Our chef makes the most wonderful lemon scones, I'm told."

"Perhaps I can stay for just a short while. We're incredibly busy back at the Yard," the officer replied in his well-mannered way, though he looked as if he wished to run for the hills. With a last apprehensive glance at John, Lestrade followed Mycroft up the steps.

“Poor Greg,” John commented, once they’d gone.

Sherlock smirked. “He’s at the mercy of my brother, now. I can’t imagine anything worse.” His eyes drifted to John. “Well. Maybe one or two things.”

John smiled and checked his watch. “An hour until we’re due for a feeding. I could use a kip.”

“Wait,” Sherlock said, reaching out to grab his arm. “One last thing before we go inside.”

John turned to look at him, wondering what Sherlock was possibly doing.

He got his answer when Sherlock crushed John against him. That was the only word for it – Sherlock reached around and snared him in both arms, then squeezed them together until John was suffocating against him. Sherlock tilted him back dramatically and smashed their mouths together. It wasn’t at all comfortable, so John assumed it was engineered for maximum visual impact. God help him, the bloody man was taunting the vampires.

Sherlock eased on the pressure and pulled back after less than ten seconds. John just stared at him.

“You’re adorable when you’re surprised,” Sherlock declared in a low rumble. He grinned at John.

“And you’re playing with fire,” John answered, looking askance at the seemingly-empty estate grounds.

Sherlock smiled and leaned in again. “Maybe I am,” he said, before delivering a gentler kiss. The leather of his gloves slid across the back of John’s neck. Heat rose in John's cheeks, and for a moment he almost forgot that they were on display.

The separated slowly, reluctantly.

"I think we've provided enough entertainment for one day," John whispered.

"Quite. I intend to keep any future 'entertainment' strictly private." Sherlock's eyes travelled down along John's cardigan and jeans. "Perhaps when you're more able, I'll educate you on proper dress. I may need to forcibly remove these clothes and burn them. And if you're very persuasive, I might just let you put something back on."

John felt his cheeks flush again, and Sherlock laughed all the way into the house.


	8. Persuasion

John woke to long fingers threading tenderly through his hair and the distant drumming of a rainstorm.

The fingers spread purposefully in soothing lines, mussing the army-bred orderliness of his short fringe. John drowsily nudged into the fingertips as they began their next sweep, sinking into the marvelously attentive touch. As soon as he moved, though, the sensations paused and dropped away. Disappointed, John blinked open his eyes.

His body was nestled haphazardly in a cool vise, torso contorted in an odd yet comfortable position. One ear was pressed to the soft fabric of a shirt. John tilted his face up and found Sherlock's pale, sunken eyes peering down at him.

Sherlock was lounging against one armrest of the sofa. John, wedged between Sherlock’s legs with his arms folded snugly along his abdomen, appeared to have been sleeping on the vampire for a good while. Several low lamps bathed the rest of the sitting room with soft light. Outside in the pitch-black night, rain pattered against the towering panes of glass.

A dark red blanket had mysteriously appeared at some point to cover both of them. At least, it hadn't been present before John dozed off. The edges were carefully tucked around John, enclosing him in an insulating shell that seemed to have been designed to preserve as much of his ambient heat as possible. It proved pleasantly warm in comparison to Sherlock's tepid body underneath him. John blearily watched the vampire, blanket drawn so high that he felt like a small creature peeking out of a burrow after an interrupted hibernation.

John's hazy hopes of returning to sleep were dashed when Sherlock’s expression grew inquisitive. He slipped a hand down the front of John’s long-sleeve shirt, the cold intrusion against bare skin causing him to momentarily tense.

It was becoming Sherlock’s bothersome custom to monitor his vital signs at regular intervals. Sherlock preferred to do it himself, as he apparently trusted the direct observations of his own senses over anything John, regardless of his medical experience, might possibly tell him.

His hand settled over John’s sternum. “Breathe for me,” Sherlock urged firmly.

Indifference and exhaustion easily overcame any interest in bickering about it again. John inhaled a few times to let Sherlock feel the rise and fall of his chest. The hand then moved to his left pectoral, pressing against bone and muscle to detect the heartbeat underneath.

Sherlock had every right to harbor concern, of course. John’s entire bodily system, so thoroughly ravaged for weeks on end, now resided precariously on the razor-edge of collapse. He was constantly struck with dizziness, sluggish thoughts, heart palpitations, and wildly fluctuating blood pressure. It was immensely exhausting. His body was actively attempting to die, and the only things holding it back from the brink were the intervention of the herbal remedies and regular visits from Esther.

Nothing about their situation was natural any longer. Humans weren't meant to endure rigorous feedings and expect to survive any significant length of time. John was on the vampiric equivalent of life support, and Sherlock fared only marginally better. Artificial means, even those based in the more arcane aspects of the world, only prolonged the inevitable for so long.

The toll reached far beyond the physical. As the days and nights blurred together, a feeling of intangible loss grew unsettlingly stronger within John. It reminded him of a cluster of balloons gradually untethering, one by one, and silently floating away into the night. John's mind and spirit were peeling away into nothingness, and he had no idea how much longer he could last. Each day felt like one step closer to destruction.

After a few minutes of careful inspection, Sherlock retracted his hand from John's shirt. He passed judgment with a small noise of affirmation, which John assumed meant he’d qualified as ‘still alive’.

John settled his cheek back against the surface of Sherlock’s chest and allowed his heavy-lidded eyes to fall closed. He heard Sherlock scrounging around in the gap in the cushion as he retrieved the notebook that was stored there. A sound of pages flipping came from above, and then the scratch of a pencil as Sherlock recorded his notes about John’s condition.

John wanted desperately to go back to sleep, but now that he was awake the familiar tinge of mild agitation was returning. It was a constant companion now, reminiscent of many tense, sleepless nights spent in remote insurgent-occupied parts of the Afghan countryside. No matter how tired he might feel, coaxing himself to relax and nod off again any time soon was a long-shot.

Sleep proved an elusive, fickle enemy in recent days. As Sherlock wrote, John tried to recall his last waking memory. He had been listening to Sherlock’s voice as he described, at length, his preferred methodologies of pollen analysis for use in criminal investigations. The information was incredibly tedious, but the comforting sound of his voice must have lulled John to sleep.

"I think we’ve discovered the answer to your sleeping trouble," Sherlock said. He shut his notebook and stuffed it away.

John forced a questioning grunt from his lungs, shifting slightly to find a more comfortable position against the vampire. Even with feeding so often, Sherlock was still remarkably lean.

“You fall asleep in an average time of eighteen minutes and seventeen seconds when I discuss forensic science in any useful detail,” Sherlock clarified. “Insulting to my professional ego as it may be, the results speak for themselves.”

“Is that why you woke me? To tell me I fell asleep?” John asked, voice rasping as his throat cleared. He couldn’t have been asleep for more than a few hours.

“Of course not. I just thought you should know I found the solution. Forensics, and you’re out.”

“It’s not forensics,” John mumbled against his chest, forcing his eyes open. “It’s you, just talking. You could read a phone directory for all the importance of the topic.”

There was a brief pause before Sherlock sighed forlornly. “I was afraid of that.”

John slowly stretched out his arms along the couch cushion, straightening the elbow joints that had spent far too long in a bent position. They tingled as the blood rushed back into them. "You needn't serve as my pillow," John intoned, knowing Sherlock hated to be around for his stints of sleep.

The fingers returned to his hairline, gently furrowing into familiar territory. John resisted the urge to nuzzle into them. “John, you experience enough difficulty as it stands. Clearly, sleep comes easier when I’m here. You like it."

John sighed, looking up at him. Sherlock’s curls were wildly out of control and quite endearing. "That doesn't mean you have to do it every time."

"It's not entirely unpleasant,” Sherlock conceded, tilting his head slightly as he studied John. “It provides time to think. I always think more efficiently when you’re near. When I know you’re safe.”

John hid his smile in Sherlock’s shirt. "What were you thinking about?”

"A number of things. How your blood has been tasting less bitter than it did. Several topics relating to cryptography. The inconvenience of your required sleeping habits.” Sherlock stopped petting John’s hair to adjust the blanket around him. “You are unconscious for nearly a third of each day. It's annoying."

"I'm a human, Sherlock. I can't help it."

He frowned sullenly. “I dislike it when you’re gone. I want you awake with me.”

“Would it make any difference if I was? You’re always off in your own head.”

“Of course it would, John,” Sherlock replied in an affronted tone. “I hate finding you absent when I need your assistance. It would resolve the matter entirely if you were simply awake at all times.”

John would have laughed at the absurdity, but he knew perfectly well that Sherlock meant every word he said. Was that really how Sherlock saw it? That John was leaving him every time he slept? Perhaps that was one of the reasons he disliked being around for it. In addition to the sheer tediousness, of course. "Don't you remember what it's like to sleep every day?"

"I never rested as much as you when I was human," Sherlock complained.

John closed his eyes again. "Take it up with biology, then, and leave me be.”

"I can't. The alarm on the phone said it’s time to feed. It’s why I woke you."

“Christ, already?” John asked, lifting his head. He cursed mildly under his breath. Hadn’t they just fed a short while ago? Where had the time gone?

"It's working, John," Sherlock reminded him.

John sagged against the vampire and steeled himself to find the energy to move. His body felt like a colossal weight, borne down by a fundamental need to shut off and preserve only the most critical of functions. He had barely managed to turn on his back for the last feeding. The task seemed impossible, now.

Sherlock gently ran hand along the nape of his neck, stroking in a calming manner. John suspected that it wouldn’t take the world’s only consulting detective to tell his reserves had long since run dry.

Sherlock gave him a few moments, but when John failed to budge he reached down to remove the red blanket. “Here. I have an idea,” he said, tossing it onto the backrest.

Suddenly, Sherlock rolled outward onto his side. John tumbled out from between his legs with a surprised grunt, hitting the cushion. Sherlock grabbed him under the arms and, with appalling strength, hauled him up the length of the sofa. He shifted and squirmed on the wide cushions until John was on his side with Sherlock propped up on one elbow directly behind him.

“Will this work?” John inquired, twisting his head back to see their pyjama-clothed bodies lined up side by side. They were nearly spooning.

Sherlock pulled a pillow over and stuck it under John’s head, then pressed him down. “We’ll find out. Stay still.”

It wasn’t difficult for John to set his head down, given that it seemed to weigh about a hundred stone. His skin prickled as he registered how terribly cold it was in the sitting room now that the blanket was off him. The fireplace gave off no useful heat at all.

"Have you done this before? Horizontal?" John asked as Sherlock pulled experimentally at the neckline of his shirt.

"I accidentally walked in on someone doing it once," he answered in an unseen rumble. “Same thing, really.”

“No, no it isn’t. Jesus,” John said. He gripped onto the hem of his shirt, kneading it with his fingers. “Just… take your time, yeah?”

The cushion dipped as Sherlock moved around behind him. “Don’t worry. The mechanics of it looked simple enough.”

Sherlock ran a hand over John's throat, finding the pulse with ease, then crowded closer and lowered his head for a solid sniff. Feeding as often as they did was unnatural for a vampire. Most of the time, Sherlock felt overfed and had to intentionally excite himself to want to drink at all.

He spent several long minutes with his face in the crook of John's neck, smelling and listening against the backdrop of rain on the window panes. Sherlock had compared the sound of John's blood to how someone dying of dehydration would feel about the noise of a river close by. The most beautiful sound in the world, he'd called it. It was so ingrained in the vampire psyche that Sherlock could use it to induce thirst after only a short while.

John blinked into the room with weary eyes, streams of breath periodically grazing his throat. Sherlock’s free arm snaked around his chest and John brought up his hands to cover his cold flesh, pressing down over the elegant fingers and around his palm. He was well on his way to learning the intricacies of Sherlock’s hands by touch alone. As the vampire concentrated, John traced over the familiar anatomy and readied himself for the coming bite.

“Your blood smells better every time I do this,” Sherlock muttered, close to his ear.

“Preferable to smelling worse, I suppose,” John retorted tiredly. He squeezed Sherlock’s hand in encouragement.

Gradually, the pile of dark curls at the edge of his vision moved as Sherlock reared up a bit. John turned his head to get a brief visual check. The familiar predatory look had invaded Sherlock's pale eyes, revealing the disarming focus that meant he sought John’s blood. Sherlock lowered into what John hoped was an effective biting position.

Sherlock was no longer cautious about biting him, now that they’d gained experience. John kept completely still, providing solid resistance as the fangs made contact with his neck. They sank sharply into his jugular, but for some reason John's usual yelp of shock failed to appear.

Fantastic. On the metaphorical food chain, he was now the equivalent of a mostly-dead deer that didn't complain when a carnivore wandered past and started eating it alive. He noticed the reactionary need to flee hadn't completely faded, which would at least count as a minor victory among the survival-inclined.

As Sherlock gorged on him, John began inhaling deep, rhythmic breaths. After his hallucinatory episodes, he'd decided to curtail the effects by introducing as much oxygen into his system as possible during feedings. So far, the strategy had helped stave off the worst of it.

The hand around John’s chest moved down to his abdomen and tugged him back into Sherlock’s body. John kept his hands around Sherlock’s arm where it encircled him, smoothing them over his warming skin as he drank from behind. The sedation enzyme hit in a faint wave, and John let himself slacken against Sherlock's angular planes. John found he actually preferred the languid position to Sherlock’s normal straddle. It was less restrictive.

How many ways could a vampire functionally feed from a human? As curious as he was to find out, John doubted they’d have the opportunity to try any others. Once this ordeal was over, he anticipated their feedings would come to an end. Sherlock desperately needed healthy blood, and John intended to enforce just such a diet whether he wanted it or not. He didn't care about the increased potency his blood could provide. No amount of power was worth risking Sherlock's life, and unless he could prove that John’s blood was entirely safe for him to consume, none would pass his lips.

Sherlock painfully adjusted the fangs embedded in John’s jugular, changing the angle inside the vein. John’s vision abruptly constricted into indistinct fuzziness as his blood pressure plummeted.

He closed his eyes and centered himself on his breathing, shoving away the sensations of warmth against his back and spreading pain in his neck.

In and out. His mind swam, lungs already hyperventilated and unable to help him cope with the freefalling blood pressure.

In and out. _Focus_.

In and out. His heart palpitated hard and fast, and the arm wrapped around him tightened further. John held on.

In and out. _Sherlock_?

The thoughts in his head jumbled as idea and sensation ran together. John felt like he was melting, strung down by gravity in slow motion. _Keep breathing_.

He breathed. Where did the room end? John hung over empty, infinite space. _Breathe, you idiot_.

Something wet tickled him. It made him giggle, but he couldn’t be certain whether he had done so aloud or in his head. _Breathe, breathe, breathe_.

He breathed for what seemed like ages, cemented in each moment, each action.

In. Out. In. Out.

Some exhalations were accompanied by whimpers, but it wasn't clear where the noise had come from.

In. Out. In. Out.

A low, familiar sound drifted through the clutter.

Spanning the line between active thought and delirium, John’s mind calmed enough to recognize it as Sherlock reciting the periodic table into the back of his neck. His voice sounded strained, and he shook uncontrollably against John. Long fingers twitched spasmodically over John's stomach where they gripped him.

God, he hurt.

A deep ache pulsed inside his head, and the muscles of his heart chamber fluttered as if they might seize at any moment. John wanted to ask if Sherlock was all right, but when he opened his mouth the only thing that emerged was a miserable moan.

The warm mass behind him pulled away. Gentle touches encouraged John to settle onto his back.

For as tall as he was, Sherlock could certainly fold and compress himself into miraculously small areas. He seemed to recede into the back of the couch, making room for John to lie flat next to him. As soon as John was down, Sherlock wasted no time in reaching over him to grab the sport bottle down on the floor beside the sofa. He dug an arm under John’s shoulders and forced him to rise up enough to drink the water contained within it.

The water was room-temperature and gloriously refreshing. John swallowed it as quickly as he could, sputtering and coughing wetly when his eagerness got the better of him. The water would partially counteract the loss of fluid from feeding, but was woefully inadequate for replacing his lost blood cells. Still, it was better than nothing. Sherlock held him upright until he drained the bottle and tossed it to the floor. John’s senses stabilized as Sherlock laid him back down.

The vampire trembled as he settled alongside John. Eyes properly focusing on Sherlock, John nearly gasped when he saw the exacerbated damage wrought by the feeding.

Sherlock’s skin, appearing unhealthy at the best of times, had faded to the color of old chalk. His features, gaunt and haggard, were shadowed with hues of grey and rendered as overly large in his thin, angular face. He was a wraith of himself, and it nearly turned John's stomach.

Despite Sherlock’s insistence that it was becoming easier to feed on him, John knew the look of advanced ailment when he saw it. John realized with sudden clarity that his interest in toxic blood might be a portent of a larger problem. Men lost at sea for long enough started to think the salty seawater a magnificent drink, even as they guzzled themselves to a painful death. Sherlock's mind, so intrinsically central to his identity, was committing the ultimate betrayal.

The worst, though, were his eyes. The irises studying John looked foreign, dull, and frighteningly subdued. The electricity, the flurry of energy that always shone through from that brilliant brain, was extinguished. They were the bone-pale eyes of a slowly dying creature.

“God,” said John, voice soft with horror. “I’m killing you.”

Sherlock conformed against him, a stretch of warm clay molding to his silhouette. He clung to John with greedy fingers. “No,” he answered despondently. “We’re killing each other.”

John turned his head and kissed the first piece of Sherlock he came into contact with, which happened to be his cotton-clad shoulder. Sherlock huddled against John’s body, seeking shelter, and nosed into the side of his head. A rumble of distant thunder punctuated the rain pattering at the windows.

What he wouldn’t give to find an end to this, for Sherlock to be well and back to his old self again. It was all John wanted, no matter what happened to him. He was just a human. A pinpoint of light next to Sherlock’s blazing pyre. Less brilliant, less important, less influential, less… everything. He was inherently the more fragile of the two. Sherlock had survived things he could barely imagine, and would do so for centuries to come. John would be the first to break.

Seeing Sherlock like this, though, brought a sliver of doubt to that notion.

“John,” Sherlock called. His voice sounded thin, yet resolute.

John pressed his mouth to Sherlock’s shoulder, holding it there. “Mm?”

The fingers on his chest curled. “John, it’s become increasingly apparent to me…”

John stiffened. He knew that tone. The one indicating a horrifically bad idea.

“…that if I had never responded the way I did that evening…”

“Shh,” he breathed, hoping to quell Sherlock.

“…if I never confirmed my reciprocation of how you felt-”

John twisted to meet Sherlock’s inert eyes. “Stop it. Stop that.”

“-it would have saved us a great deal of trouble,” Sherlock finished, the words falling out. “We’d remain blissfully unaware of your condition. I would never have tried to feed from you.”

Sherlock looked so convinced. So terribly, devastatingly convinced he had found the root of their problems.

“You listen to me,” John scolded as forcefully as he could manage, raising a hand to trace the lines of the vampire’s hollow face. “You _listen_ to me, Sherlock. There is no situation, no scenario, under which I could ever be convinced that you aren’t worth it.”

“John-”

“I was stupid and blind and quite slow-witted, I’ll admit, as we built up to where we are. Scared and confused, as well. The night honesty won out, the night I came clean – with myself, with you… I wouldn’t change it for anything. When you said those words back to me, I swear I could’ve lit the sky for all my joy.”

“I can’t-”

“There are a great many things I wish hadn’t occurred, but none of them have to do with you. I won’t regret you. I can’t. I _don’t_. You’re brilliant and incredible and the best thing that will ever happen in my short, pitiful, human life.” John dropped his heavy hand and smiled. “And you’re an idiot sometimes. But that’s all right, because I am, too.”

Sherlock regarded him uncertainly, endless supply of words finally dried up.  

“Could you go back?” John asked, tone softening. “If I offered it right now, could you put this behind you?”

The vampire watched him with searching eyes. "No," he admitted.

John nodded. "Good. No more of that talk."

Sherlock looked away. It was a small movement, but one that indicated he conceded to John.

They slumped together, woven body and limb. Despite his limitations, John made an effort to actively envelop Sherlock in his arms, wishing to stop his constant shaking and soothe away any lingering doubts bouncing around in his head. Warm as he was, John couldn’t ask for a cozier blanket. Another peal of thunder boomed outside, partnered with surging rainfall.

It was difficult for John to remember a time when touching didn’t come easily and naturally between them, even though a majority of their acquaintance had been marked by distance. Now, every moment they were together was a deluge of physical contact. Most of it was required for feeding and the like, but John noticed an increasingly proportionate amount to be entirely by choice. Sherlock, so tentative at first, accepted John’s touch without a second thought. And, God help him, John couldn't get enough of it.

Equally hard to picture was their life before all this, before the feedings and the tiredness that seemed to reach down into John’s very soul. The hours fell away faster and faster as the days wore on. They sat at the heart of a tornado, calm and quiet despite the chaos that reigned unseen. John longed for a simple day back at Baker Street.

"Remember when we did normal things?" John queried into Sherlock’s sleeve.

The detective grunted in disdain. “How dare you call either of us _normal_ , John Watson.”

“You know what I mean.”

"Normal things. Yes,” Sherlock mused. “Such as investigating violent crimes and fighting armed suspects?"

John sighed wistfully. "Yeah. And watching crap telly. Finding your disgusting experiments all over the flat. Ordering take-away. The violin. I miss it all."

"I miss it, too, John. The smell of your atrocious tea ruined by excessive amounts of milk. Hearing you curse at the computer when you think I’m not listening."

“I don’t do that!”John laughed.

“Yes, you do,” Sherlock assured him. “More often than you know.”

John figured it was a lost cause to argue with the world’s greatest living observational genius. “Do you think we’ll ever have that again?”

“I do,” he replied.

He sidled into the weight of Sherlock’s body and yawned tiredly. A return to sleep would be a welcome respite right about now. “When we get home, I’m spending a full week in bed,” he mumbled, closing his eyes. Even that amount didn’t seem enough. He could sleep for months. Years, in fact.

“Hmm,” the vampire rumbled from deep in his chest. He brought his mouth close to John’s ear. “Am I invited, then?”

John snapped open his eyelids in surprise, only to be met with Sherlock’s attempt at a sultry expression. It didn’t really work, as frail as he appeared. “Look at you, turned the suggestive lecher,” marveled John.

“You bring out the debauchery in me,” he teased. John felt a flirtatious tug at the bottom of his shirt. Sherlock pressed in again, as if passing a secret. “I think of you, and I quite like it. You seemed to like it, too, last time. Still experiencing reservations?”

Heat rose in John’s cheeks, and Sherlock’s smile widened at the sight. “I think we’ve crossed enough boundaries for you to know that answer.”

“I know. I just want to hear you say it.” Sherlock watched him expectantly, probably hoping for some innuendo-laced sparring.

John slid a careful hand onto the curve of Sherlock’s hipbone. God, he was thin. Before everything went downhill, when Sherlock was the only one in medical distress, he’d pondered his own series of extrapolations based on their one evening of intimate contact. At least, he’d _thought_ of it as intimate at the time. Feeding had taught him the true definition of that word. Everything was raw and unfiltered between them now, and John could barely imagine what it would be to add a physical dimension into the mix. He wanted it with every fiber of his body. But only with the healthy, whole Sherlock that he remembered.

John looked up, letting Sherlock read him. “In time, I will show you what you mean to me. Words are inadequate, and Christ, you need to know. How perfect you are to me. How much I want you. I’ll give you anything, Sherlock. Anything you wish, however you want it, though I’m keen on a few ideas myself." He trailed his fingers down around Sherlock's stomach. "I will learn you, one beautiful inch at a time, until I know your body inside and out. I will make you mine. I promise.”

As John suspected, Sherlock’s racy statements proved a facade of bluster meant to draw a reaction. He appeared mildly stunned by John’s words, but the expression was quickly swallowed up by a veneer of modest intensity. After a few moments of consideration, he leaned in to deposit a soft kiss on John's lips, on his jaw, then up at his temple. “I’ll hold you to it,” he said with an air of surety.

Experiencing an odd feeling of contentedness, John sighed and settled back against the sofa cushion. “Six more days seems like an eternity.”

“We can reduce it to five, or even four, but the danger grows exponentially the earlier we try,” Sherlock supplied.

“Let’s not risk it, then. Six days.”

“Six days," he agreed.

Then, apparently wanting John to go back to sleep, Sherlock launched into a detailed monologue about the life cycle of the European honey bee. John closed his eyes as the resonant voice washed over him.

Wrapped in warm arms, listening to the rain and Sherlock’s description of larval development, John could almost fall victim to the optimism of the moment. Their unbreakable partnership had already survived countless trials. But as he silently urged himself to go to sleep, he knew he only need open his eyes and see Sherlock’s pallid complexion, his obvious misery, to know how fragile that hope truly was.

John drifted toward the abyss of sleep. Drowsiness filled him down to his core, so deep that it easily steamrolled anything else his body felt. The ache in his head and his chest faded away as Sherlock softly opined about the wonders of bees.

A sharp force suddenly rattled the doorknob to the sitting room. John resurfaced to wakefulness with a spike of adrenaline, military-reflex alert clutching in his chest. Sherlock abruptly stopped talking and stirred to tension next to him.

Before either of them could react, the door quickly swung open and John heard several abrasive voices echoing from down the hall and into the cavernous room. This late at night and with terrible weather, visitors could only mean one thing.

Sherlock immediately shot upright. “Stay here," he warned in a low voice, pressing a hand to John’s arm. He launched off the couch, jostling John as he clambered over him to reach the hardwood floor.

John struggled to swing his legs around and pull himself into a semi-respectable position as he watched the unfolding scene. Mycroft blocked the open door to the sitting room, facing out into the hall. His back was straight as a rod as he inaudibly addressed the outside occupants. Sherlock approached the doorway like a cautious feline, failing to smooth out the defensive curve of his shoulders and noticeable remnants of his trembling.

Mycroft was pushed aside, suddenly, as a line of well-dressed male vampires shoved their way into the room. The rain had dampened their overcoats and hair, but the spiteful grins adorning their faces shone unfazed. With faltering dismay, John recognized the lead man to be Wilkes. The troublesome vampire conspicuously eyed John from across the room.

Christ, were they finally come to take him? Sherlock had made it clear that leaving would be a one-way trip. John's experience with the fickleness of vampires initially led him to expect them far earlier. After weeks of undisturbed progress, though, John had actually allowed himself to believe they had a shot at making it to the end.

Stupid. He instinctively clenched his hands into fists. He wouldn’t last long, in his state, but if it was capital punishment they were after, John would go down fighting.

Luckily, he wasn’t alone in that sentiment. “Get out,” Sherlock ordered, fluidly stepping in front of Wilkes. He pressed a cautionary hand against the monstrously expensive material of the other man’s suit.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft snapped in warning, still by the door. “You will allow them to pass.”

“What are they doing here?” Sherlock demanded, clearly trying to bridle his panic as he looked to Mycroft.

Wilkes smiled smugly and pushed aside Sherlock’s hand. He raised an eyebrow at his wretched appearance. “My associates and I are here by strict order of the council. You and your brother are to afford us every courtesy.”

“I said _GET OUT_!” Sherlock shouted.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” reprimanded Mycroft, as if to a child.

Wilkes and Sherlock glared at one another, deadlocked. Six other vampires wandered in around them, keeping their distance behind Wilkes. Adrenaline flooded John’s system, raising his heart rate to a painful level.

“You’re not taking John,” Sherlock growled firmly, staring him down. “We were guaranteed a month.”

“We’re here for his blood, actually,” Wilkes said, tone dripping with malice. He was enjoying every second of seeing Sherlock off-balance. “A living Immune has never been with us for longer than a day or two. Certain interested parties convinced the elders that an important opportunity was passing before our very eyes. They require a sample of his blood. For research, you understand.”

“If it is information you want, I possess complete records of all my studies of his blood,” Sherlock countered. “Those should suffice for your _research_.”

Wilkes shook his head. “We confiscated your notes the moment we found them. Fascinating work, I’m told, for those who care. The interest lies in furthering your tests. We require the Immune’s blood for that.”

“How much?” John asked, sitting perilously upright on the sofa. Everyone turned at the sound of his reedy voice.

One of the other vampires dug around in a satchel he was carrying and lifted out an empty blood bag. It was larger than the single-serving packages sold in consumer supermarkets for vampires. The kind used in human hospitals that held nearly half a liter.

If they weren’t going to seize him for execution, this was nearly as bad. John saw imminent death in that bag. How much extra blood could he spare without overwhelming his feeble system?

“I can’t provide an entire unit,” John admitted. “Perhaps a few vials, but that’s all.”

Wilkes was stony-faced. “It’s not a request, and it’s not up for debate.”

“This clearly falls outside the established agreement,” Sherlock argued, bodily filling the space between Wilkes and John.

Mycroft tutted. “Perhaps, Sherlock, but we _will_ comply. The alternative is they remove John from the premises and you never see him again.”

Glaring at them all, Sherlock clamped his mouth shut and studied their serious faces. All were against him and waiting for him to stand aside. He glanced back toward the couch, meeting John’s eyes and seeking direction.

What could they do? It was Russian roulette, with Sherlock allowing John to choose the bullet chamber. The odds, already so drastically stacked against them, teetered dangerously. John knew only one thing in the face of such adversity: the one thing Sherlock had harped on since this all began. They needed to stay together, no matter what. He couldn’t let himself be separated from Sherlock under any circumstances.

John gave a slight nod.

“Fine. _Fine_ ,” Sherlock relented bitterly, as if swallowing bile. “But no one comes near him and no one touches him. I’ll do it.”

“As you say,” Wilkes prodded. He looked to his companions. “Gentlemen, provide our volunteer with the necessary equipment. We are expected home before the dawn and I do not intend to be late.”

The other vampires finally moved, setting down their cases and bags on the coffee table in the middle of the room. Wilkes floated to the side, overseeing their activities and proffering more glances at John. Mycroft hovered near Sherlock, who stood in silent seething outrage.

"Enjoying your diet?" one of the vampires taunted, smirking as he brushed past Sherlock.

"You look like shite," another said, connecting a clear plastic catheter line to the blood bag.

Sherlock roughly grabbed the assembled equipment from them, delivering a scowl. He turned around and nearly stumbled, obviously worn out from his jittery exertions. John suddenly worried that he might collapse.

"Get him a blood bag," John called to Mycroft.

"No, I'm fine," Sherlock interjected before his brother could answer.

“I really think you should drink something non-toxic,” John stressed. “I can’t provide-“

Sherlock knelt next to the sofa and glared at him. “ _No_.”

He was so recklessly stubborn. Anger welling, John seriously considered slapping some sense into the vampire then and there. But, with a throbbing head and a chest tight with pain, he knew he wasn’t equipped for an argument. He held out his right arm, and Sherlock proceeded to roll back his sleeve far enough to reveal the inside of his elbow.

“The tourniquet,” John said, pointing to the elastic band.

“I know how to do it,” Sherlock chastised darkly.

He tied it off around John’s bicep, and then sorted through the gear until he found the needled cannula. John made a fist with his hand. The vampire quickly located a vein and inserted the needle, which was attached to the catheter tubing. The opaque tube quickly darkened with John’s blood. Slowly, the sealed bag began to fill.

Sherlock caught his eye, watching with meticulous care.

“I expect this will satisfy your employers until the end of our little experiment,” Mycroft said to Wilkes and his men, calm as ever. “We are quite close to finishing-”

“That’s up to the elders,” one of the men replied dourly.

“The hearings continue, despite your irregular appearances,” Wilkes declared with an air of superiority. “Deliver all the circumstantial evidence you like, but there will always be fifty others waiting in the wings to discredit you, Holmes. You’ve brought a terrible rift to our community in trying to save the Immune. Many would see your lineage finished for what you’ve done.” He glanced at Sherlock’s sickly appearance and smirked. “It seems to have one foot in the grave already.”

John’s headache grew worse. He could almost feel his blood vessels contracting in protest as the life-giving fluid drained from his body. The low lamps felt too bright against his eyes. He squinted at Sherlock, who was still focused solely on him. A strange rushing sound rose all around him, obfuscating the ongoing conversation.

“We have complied with all requirements,” Mycroft intoned stiffly. “The council has seen fit to allow us the benefit of the doubt thus far. I’ve spoken with them often, and it is clear they see reason in what we are attempting. What you do here is nothing more than petty interference with a critical-“

Wilkes cut him off with an obscene laugh. “Save your breath for someone else, Holmes. We’re not here to listen to your sanctimonious babbling. He’s a danger, plain and simple. You know it, I know it. It’s the only relevant fact, in the end. Just because your brother wants him up the arse doesn’t make it any less true.”

Mycroft was beyond affronted. “You will wait out in the hall until this business is concluded, or I will see you forcibly removed from my property.”

“John?” Sherlock asked, touching his hand. John stared blankly back at him, dizziness taking hold.

The men continued to talk, but the words were hard to decipher. Wilkes and Mycroft stood nose-to-nose, faces alight with animosity. Their voices rang loud and angry, but hollow in their meaning. John blinked at them, ensnared by the odd scene, until the walls and floor started whirling away from him in surreal patterns.

The blood bag was half full. Sherlock picked it up and squeezed it, moving the fluid around in the vacuum-sealed pack. He glanced worriedly at John, eyes flickering in rapid observation.

John shivered in unrelenting spasms as his heartbeat grew more pronounced in his chest. He could feel it in his whole body, a single jarring pulse snowballing out of control. An unaccountable chill passed through him. The room was getting colder by the minute. Is this what dying felt like?

An odd texture met his skin, and he looked down to see Sherlock pooling red on him. It matched the color coming from his arm. The red was scratchy and bizarre and John tried to push it off, but Sherlock just put it back on him, mouthing something.

The light in the room dimmed out strangely. He saw Sherlock in front of him, lips moving, eyes wide as he spoke incomprehensible words. There was no sound, nothing beyond the rushing in John’s ears. The muscles in his jaw moved. They danced and flexed. But there was nothing.

Gravity disintegrated and sapped away. As the world closed in around him, John’s last glimpse was of his favorite silvery eyes.

He’d never seen them so distraught.

 

\---

 

An intense spinning sensation pounded in John's head. Voices murmured in the distance, pestering his eardrums with insistent chatter. He became vaguely aware of uncomfortably hard support under his legs and back. The need to vomit overrode it all, the desire to empty his stomach and collapse away until the spinning receded. He parsed out the sensations, trying to separate what was in his head from his physical body. He recognized a swaying motion. Someone was carrying him.

The sounds sharpened painfully against a buzzing backdrop, and John wished it would all go away again.

"-can't have this happen when we bind,” came Sherlock's deep and unhappy voice from somewhere above. “He needs to stay conscious."

"I'll see what can be done," Mycroft answered from farther away. "Nathaniel and Esther might have a solution-"

"He's coming round," Sherlock interrupted. "John? Can you hear me? You passed out."

John managed a throaty groan, eyes cracking open. His vision was dark and unfocused. The spinning was still so strong that he couldn't lock on to any one object. Blobs of light passed by; they must be in the halls.

"Are you sure you don't need help carrying him?" Mycroft asked. "You're not at your strongest-"

"I can do it," Sherlock replied harshly. The vampire’s fingers dug into John’s thigh and ribs for a tighter hold. "This is all _your_ fault. I told you to keep them _out_."

"I didn't have a choice," Mycroft retorted defensively. “Much as it pains me, we are not autonomous. I fear we never shall be.”

The arms supporting John adjusted, tilting him toward Sherlock as they found a better grip. John felt another wave of nausea hit him. He wanted Sherlock to put him down and let him get his bearings amidst the whirling. Under the circumstances, though, he was liable to throw up rather than speak coherently if he opened his mouth.

“They took too much,” Sherlock grumbled. “They could have killed him. He’s barely able to provide enough for _me_ , Mycroft.”

“He’s resilient.”

Sherlock snorted in derision. “Our time is quickly running short. All the resiliency in the world won’t help us if there’s no opportunity to mend. Get the door, will you?"

There was a rattling of a doorknob, and a subsequent creak of a hinge. The atmosphere changed, suddenly. It bore a charged quality, like static-filled air just before a thunderstorm.

"You’ll feel better in here with the sigils, John," Sherlock told him.

They were back in their room. John’s sight had returned enough to make out the wallpaper with the scribbled markings. He could tell it had a pattern, but for some reason his eyes couldn’t discern any of the fine detail.

The swaying movement halted. Something soft and cool met the back of his head, then down the rest of his body. His limbs slackened as Sherlock gently placed him down on top of the duvet. John sighed in relief at the glorious stillness, nausea fading and breath coming easier.  

"We'll skip our next feeding. Maybe the one after that, as well. He needs to recover," Sherlock said.

"As do you," Mycroft pointed out.

Colors crept back into John’s eyesight. Sherlock and Mycroft loomed as two dark figures beside him, hued in wintry tones and backlit by a solitary desk lamp across the room. The icy blue of Sherlock’s eyes stood out, surveying John with their usual neurotic dedication.

"He's so pale," Sherlock said quietly. He turned to look at his brother. “Perhaps I could return some of the blood I took.”

Mycroft gave a half-frown. “How much time has passed since you last fed on him?”

“Approximately fifty-three minutes.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Too long, Sherlock. You’re already well on your way to digesting it.”

“I can’t just leave him like this.”

“A transfusion is still an option,” Mycroft noted solemnly. “I’ve made it a priority to store blood that matches his type for an emergency situation such as this.”

Sherlock sat down heavily on the bedside next to John, but didn’t answer.

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. “Sherlock, this is your choice. A transfusion or nothing. What do you wish to do?”

“We’ve come too far,” Sherlock said, eyes on John.

“Your intentions are commendable, but John’s life will be further endangered if you allow him to continue on unaided. Is it worth watching him die?”

“What would you have me do?” Sherlock snarled. “It must be _his_ blood. His alone. Unspoiled. You know that, Mycroft.”

“A single transfusion won’t bring irrevocable harm.”

“It will impede me. The binding will be incalculably more difficult and unacceptably dangerous. It could easily fail, or leave him... not himself.”

“If he dies now, what would it matter?”

A familiar expression of obstinacy crossed Sherlock’s face. “I’m willing to risk it.”

“On John's behalf, I really must insist-“

“No,” John coughed out, lungs burning as if his entire chest cavity had petrified. Both vampires snapped their heads to glance at him.

“John, you are not well," Mycroft said gently. "If you saw yourself you’d know as much. It’s for the best that we give you donor blood.”

“Do as… Sherlock says,” he managed, short of breath. Every word reverberated painfully through his head. “I trust him.”

“Two votes to… oh, that’s right, _none_ ,” Sherlock taunted at his brother, “because this isn’t _your_ bloody decision, Mycroft.”

“You are, both of you, either very brave or very foolish,” Mycroft derided, glancing at Sherlock. His brother ignored him once again. He sighed laboriously and tugged at his suit jacket, angling toward the door. “If he gets worse or needs immediate aid, you know who to call.”

Sherlock made a noise of acquiescence. That was undoubtedly a more generous response than Mycroft expected, because he nodded courteously and departed in a huff of irritation.

The door clicked shut, and in the silence that followed John noted that it was still raining outside. The spinning in his head had calmed down, but the room still felt as if it was moving in an agonizing slow orbit. John shifted his head on the pillow to get a clearer look at Sherlock in the dimness of the room.

The vampire watched him silently for several minutes, weighing his thoughts with a frown that John couldn’t begin to interpret. He finally laid down on the bed, aligning himself next to John and resting his head against his chest. The perfect position to continuously monitor John's vital signs. One arm reached over to grasp John's left hand. Nimble fingers slid into place at his wrist, feeling for the pulse.

“He's right, you know,” Sherlock confessed. “This may be a terrible idea.”

John flexed his hand against Sherlock’s in a weak attempt at a handhold. Sherlock caught the hint and threaded their fingers together.

“I’m not infallible, John,” he continued. "I don't understand why you place so much faith in me."

John wished desperately for the strength to pull him close and kiss him, to gather up the failing pieces of his confidence and restore him to his magnificent, luminous self. He would always trust in Sherlock, even when Sherlock didn’t trust in himself. It was a constant, a given, a certainty of the universe. John wanted to collect the millions of tiny reasons for his faith and weave a truth that could never be shaken away.

“I love you,” John explained softly, breathing the words into Sherlock's dark curls.

Rather than soothing him, John’s words seemed to have the opposite effect. Sherlock’s expression hardened to stone. He brought their intertwined hands close between them, holding tight as if the very world depended on it.

“Six days,” he pleaded into their gathered fingers, so quiet John could scarcely hear him. “Just give me six more days.”


	9. Disclosure

A fine yellow dust floated gently in the air. Itchiness built in the back of John's throat until he sneezed twice in quick, uncontrollable succession. The force of it instantly destroyed the cloud, sending the particles flying in every possible direction.

“Allergic to ragwort, then,” Esther commented drily. Her hand drew into a pensive curl at her chin. 

John scrunched his nose and resisted the urge to sneeze again. He cleared his nasal passage with an indelicate sniff. “It’s a weed, isn’t it?”

“Only to the inexperienced and uninformed,” she replied, dark eyes attentively absorbing his reaction.

The spellcrafter pivoted where she stood at his bedside, turning to rummage through the antique cherry wood case nestled at the foot of the mattress. The well-worn wood box, outfitted with dozens of ingeniously constructed compartments, overflowed with small sample packets, vials, powders, thick ointments, and a tin of worryingly discolored vanilla beans. She sorted through them with lively fingers and jingling bangles, muttering to herself all the while.

John settled his full weight against the pile of pillows stacked around the headboard. Simply sitting upright in the bed was proving more taxing than he’d anticipated, and he needed all the support he could get. He had over a dozen pillows now, wedged at odd angles behind his spine and beneath his arms so that he couldn’t roll too far in either direction. John wasn’t sure where they’d all come from or how they’d arrived, but he was thankful for their presence nonetheless.

Esther continued searching through her stores. John rolled his head slightly to the left, fighting the nagging desire to close his eyes. Instead, he tugged the layered bedclothes further up his body to ward off the chill of the room. The maids claimed they had turned up the heat in this part of the house three separate times, but the bedroom still felt positively glacial to his poorly regulated body. They refused to bring him a hot water bottle or electric blanket, either, because Esther claimed he was actually running a temperature.

John’s scalp prickled with cooling sweat, an unpleasant reminder of his state. He wanted to reach up and smooth his hair into a more polite appearance, but the wearying prospect of raising his arm that high dissuaded him entirely.

He’d glanced in a mirror earlier, and found someone staring back who was equal parts eerily familiar and entirely foreign. Someone he’d known during those first few weeks home from Afghanistan; a reflected companion from nightmare-riddled evenings when nothing but a cold spray of water to the face could convince him he was no longer on the battlefield. It was all the same: tousled hair, haunted expression, mismatched articles of clothing, and a sort of heavy resignation in the eyes that hinted at unspoken traumas. The only difference was the complexion; rather than tanned, his skin was pale as milk.

Esther peered skeptically between a few boxes of dried herbs, sighing indecisively.

“Black horehound, I think?” Mycroft said from across the room. He was leaning on the desk in his usual clean-cut suit, attention oddly rapt as he watched the spellcrafter work.

Esther glanced up at him. “Hmm. Perhaps.”

Mycroft had followed close on Esther’s heels when she first arrived a half hour earlier. John still wasn’t exactly sure why he was here, beyond his fundamental need to know everything about everyone at all times. From the snippets of conversation John overheard, it seemed Mycroft harbored some sort of recreational interest in herbalism and alchemy. He’d been quite the studious practitioner in his younger days, by the sound of it.

Esther rifled through several of the vials until she picked out one containing a rosy red substance. A curly black script decorated the bottle, and John got a brief glimpse of the word “Hore” scrawled on it before Esther’s hand got in the way. She unscrewed the lid and daubed a small amount on a wooden sample stick.

She offered it to John with one slim, bejeweled hand. “Taste.”

He frowned, pushing at the mattress with sore limbs until his body was maneuvered into a more upright position. “What if I’m allergic to this, too?”

“Your throat will swell up and we’ll need to fetch an antihistamine,” she admonished. “Quickly, now.”

John took the stick and smelled it cautiously before touching the wood to his tongue. The liquid was thick like a syrup and incredibly bitter.

Esther waited a few moments. “Itching? Burning? Anything unpleasant?”

“No,” John answered, swallowing mechanically to get the nasty taste out of his mouth. “Sorry, what’s this for?”

“I’ve a perfect record,” she said, pushing her sleek chin-length hair back behind one ear. “Twenty-seven successful bindings under my belt and not a single failure or rejection among the lot. I attribute my success to anticipating all possible problems from all possible angles. You’ll need a custom-made preventative remedy before the binding. Don’t want to make things harder with an unanticipated allergic reaction, do we?”

“I suppose not. Doesn’t Sherlock need one?”

Esther capped the bottle and set it aside with a small collection of other ingredients she intended to use. “I dealt with him hours ago. He threatened bodily harm if I dared wake you, so I had to wait for your turn.”

“Oozing charm, my brother,” Mycroft noted.

“How did you know I had woken?” John inquired.

Esther pointed to her markings on the walls of the bedroom. “I may not be Father Christmas, but I _do_ know when you’re sleeping and when you’re awake.”

John chuckled, then rubbed at his aching head and leaned back into his nest of pillows. Since Sherlock first brought him into the bedroom to recover from his crippling blood donation, his memories had formed hazily and sparingly. He remembered a number of partially-conscious feedings, instances of abrupt bewilderment where he found Sherlock pinning him tight against the mattress, fangs deep in his neck, as if John had been violently flailing just a moment prior. When he wasn’t forcibly feeding, Sherlock remained as a watchful presence on the perimeter of John's awareness. John heard him speaking in long uninterrupted monologues at various points, though he never managed to catch the particular details of what he was saying. In the end, John’s clearest recollections generally involved lying slumped in the bed and watching the walls infinitely drip.

The most disconcerting incident was when John experienced a delirious urge to retrieve his handgun and some silver-tipped bullets in case the hostile vampires returned. That decision made little sense, in hindsight, because as far as John knew his gun was still back at Baker Street. His confused self also greatly misjudged the extent of the sigils’ role in propping up his health. He made it to the hallway all right, but once outside collapsed to the ground after only three wobbly steps. Sherlock had ordered their door locked, after that, to prevent any more impromptu breakouts.

The side of the bed he distinctly remembered Sherlock inhabiting was now flat and unoccupied. “Where is he?” John asked the others, feeling a twinge of uneasiness at being parted so near to the end of it all.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Elsewhere. He believes his presence to be of little use, as he cannot actively aid in your recovery.”

“You need time to replenish your blood supply so there's enough to work with during the ritual,” Esther added. “Sherlock will not feed from you again. Not until the binding.”

John loosed a sigh. No doubt Sherlock had grown impatient and restless after keeping vigil for so long and relished the opportunity for a change of scenery. Woe be it to the person who tried to pin him down when there was nothing interesting for him to focus on. John decided it wouldn’t be remiss to remind him of the intangible benefits of staying with your ailing partner.

John had already discovered and come to terms with Sherlock’s absence, at least. He woke early that morning and stared in confusion at the clock for ten minutes until he convinced himself that, yes, he had just slept for a solid thirteen hours with no interruption for feeding or prodding. As far as John could tell, he’d now been alone for the past 24 hours. More, possibly.

The remainder of the day had been spent in bouts of sleeping, during which plates of vitamin-rich, protein-heavy foods spontaneously appeared in his room (no doubt courtesy of the kitchen staff). John alternated between napping and sating his growing appetite. Wonders of modern medicine aside, there was something almost miraculous about the recuperative effects of simply taking the time to eat and sleep properly. With another day or so to rest, John felt cautiously optimistic about recovering enough strength to survive one final drink.

As Esther poked through her case again, John considered the approaching end. The nightmare was almost finished.

“We’ve done it, then. We’ve made it,” John posited, glancing around for confirmation. “As long as I stay in here for the next two days, I mean.”

Mycroft and Esther eyed one another. Neither looked entirely confident.

“Your efforts thus far have proven admirable, but the greatest risk was always in the event itself,” Mycroft explained. “We can't judge the success of the preparations until you actually attempt to bind with my brother.”

“Which is why I’m doing everything I can to minimize the risk,” Esther said, coming up along his bedside. “Shirt. Off.”

She didn't wait for him to attempt to remove it himself, instead placing her hand intrusively on John’s shoulder and bending him forward. Esther gripped the back of his shirt with her other hand before unceremoniously peeling it up and over his head. She flung it carelessly on top of the duvet.

John shivered when the cool air made contact with his skin. He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to preserve his dwindling body heat. Running a temperature - his arse! Hypothermia would feel warmer. And possibly less painful.

Esther was already back at her case, pulling out several thin boxes that looked to be used on a regular basis. From one, she applied a layer of soft tallow to her right hand, then dusted it with a blackish powder from another. She repeated the steps several times while murmuring a string of odd-sounding words.

“Sherlock’s feedings from you haven’t been as smooth as we’d like,” Mycroft said as she worked. He stretched briefly against the desk, uncharacteristically captivated by the proceedings. “He has demonstrated the ability to survive your blood, but there’s no telling what the requisite amount for binding will do to him. I must tell you, though, that the most significant concern we now face is your ability to survive it.”

John tucked his cold fingers under his arms. “If we fail, it won’t be for lack of trying.”

Mycroft glanced at him skeptically before shifting his gaze to the spellcrafter. “We’ll find out shortly. Esther?”

Hand smeared in sooty stains, Esther approached John again. “This will feel extremely unpleasant,” she warned. “It’s a strong spell. Brace yourself.”

She wrapped her open palm over the curve of John’s left shoulder, from collarbone to trapezius muscle and next to his old bullet wound. A hot searing sensation bled down from her hand and into his chest cavity. He caught a baleful groan between his clenched teeth as she pressed her other hand to his right shoulder to keep him steady.

The heat crawled up through his neck and down as far as his diaphragm, but no further. Esther repeated a few more unfamiliar words, and a tight spasm rebounded through the affected area. Each successive wave that passed through him intensified the burn, until John was sure that his body was going to crack open and spill molten bone.

The pain held at that raging temperature. “All right?” Esther asked.

John grunted sharply, urging her to get on with it.

“Low red blood cell count, weakened cardiac muscles, high blood pressure, the works,” Esther reported to Mycroft over John’s bowed head. “He’s right at the margin, but I’ve seen worse. Granted, it was someone who’d just got two limbs shredded from their body.”

“And they weren’t Immune, I expect,” Mycroft replied flatly.

“No. Accounting conservatively for the possible complications, he’s too far under.”

John bristled against her grip. “Are you saying I can’t do it?” he huffed out.

“Not _can’t_ ,” Esther said, glancing down at him. “More like _shouldn’t._ It's like saying a blind man can't win a Formula One race. Technically incorrect, but the odds aren't favorable. You need another week, at the very least, before I would even consider allowing a vampire to bind you.”

“We don’t have the luxury of that timeframe. I’m afraid your recommendations must be overridden by necessity,” Mycroft responded. “Two days is all we have. We’ll settle for as much caution as can be provided.”

The burning receded back into Esther’s hand, and John breathed in a deep lungful of air. She lifted her palm, perfectly clean, and revealed a blackish, transposed handprint on John’s skin.

“The mark will fade in a few hours,” she informed him. “By the way, your surgeon missed a few metal fragments in your shoulder. That’s why it aches so badly when the atmospheric pressure rapidly changes.”

“Thanks,” John replied stiffly, reaching out to grab his shirt and pull the cooled cloth over his head.

Esther stowed and closed the various compartments of her wood case. She snapped it shut and hoisted it under one arm, demonstrating the inherent strength of her species.

“I’m off to work, then. See you in two days,” Esther said. She paused for a moment and studied John’s face before breaking into a reassuring smile. “I promise to watch out for you. _Both_ of you.”

Strangely, John felt a seeping comfort from her words. “We’ll try not to ruin your record,” he offered.

As she departed, Mycroft straightened and checked his pocket watch as if he shortly intended to do the same.

Something struck John then, watching Mycroft smooth out the creases in his suit and stuff the small, silvery watch back into the pocket of his waistcoat. He didn’t know when he would get Mycroft alone again, if ever, without Sherlock’s irritated presence. Certain questions bubbled up in John’s mind, things that needed to be answered before he and Sherlock took that last leap into the unknown. Precious few people shared in the secrets of the vampires, but even fewer could reliably offer insight into his own enigmatic detective.

“What’s so special about the rose garden?” John asked abruptly, trying to catch Mycroft’s attention before he decided to leave. “The one in the hedges.”

Mycroft jerked his head up. It was a stilted movement, one uncommon to see from someone so utterly in control at all times. A curious expression grew on his face. It shifted from shock to sorrow to relief in the span of mere seconds before settling on understanding.

“Yes, he _would_ take you there, wouldn’t he?” Mycroft mused, almost to himself. He shook his head slightly, breaking the static line of his body, and regarded John with unassailable reserve. “Perhaps I should leave you to rest, John. This isn’t the best time for-”

“It may be the only time,” he interrupted. “Why the roses?”

Mycroft seemed to weigh his thoughts. He settled a hand onto the nearby chair and leaned against the desk again. “I expect whilst there, he informed you of his intentions. Long-term, so to speak.”

John nodded.

“And I presume you confirmed and reciprocated those intentions.”

He nodded again. “Of course.”

Mycroft proffered a melancholy smile. John didn’t often see Mycroft genuinely smile, but he suspected this might be the closest thing to elation he could express when it came to his unpredictable brother. John wondered whether he was going to relent and answer the original question.

Suddenly, Mycroft lifted the chair at the desk and maneuvered it across the room. He positioned it next to the bed and sat down, almost as if he intended to tell John a bedtime story.

He leveled his eyes at John, unblinking and determined. "Did Sherlock ever describe to you how he was turned?"

John furrowed his brow. “No. He said he didn’t want to talk about it. Not even to me.”

Mycroft shook his head and sighed in unbearable disappointment. “And he wonders why I involve myself in his affairs. Perhaps if he conducted himself as an adult, I wouldn’t find it necessary to treat him like a child. It’s not my place to pass this information to others, John, but I firmly believe that you, of all people, need to understand. I might be able to provide certain… contextual details.”

The way Mycroft so resignedly spoke brought a surge of uneasiness to John. He knew, with sudden dread, that he would not find comfort in anything Mycroft intended to tell him.

But, he had to know. John doubted anyone could truly comprehend the innate workings of Sherlock’s brilliant mind; not even his own equally intelligent brother. They were alike in that singular way, but opposite in almost everything else. John had long ago, by conscious choice or not, resolved to be the one to try to understand him, as impossible as it might prove. For Sherlock’s sake, and his own.

“Tell me. Please,” John said, breathless.

“Where to begin?” Mycroft asked, settling back into his seat and glancing at John as if offering one final opportunity to call an end to it. “I suppose the appropriate place to start would be my own rebirth. It occurred shortly after the turn of the eighteenth century, when I was known as a rising political mind among high society of the time. Through the personal recommendations of several reputable friends, I was recruited by one of the most respected clans in all England. The vampires of the Holmes lineage prized my intellect. In return, I coveted their lifespan and unrivaled power. My sire, the matriarch of the entire extended family, turned me after the most rigorous of evaluation processes. I was ecstatic."

Mycroft smiled at the memory. "The Holmes clan is notoriously slow and careful in selecting new additions, but exclusivity comes at the cost of widespread propagation. Mummy set me on the task of searching for other superior individuals, ones who exhibited the potential to become titans of their time. It required almost two hundred years of searching before another of my caliber was found."

"Sherlock," John supplied. “What was he like, as a human?”

"Naive," Mycroft answered roundly, "though otherwise much the same as he is now. Obsessive, rude when it suits him, and disinclined from cooperating when circumstances do not align with his ends."

“It’s hard to believe your family would want someone so problematic.”

"Mummy was willing to overlook behavioral eccentricities in the face of raw intellectual talent. She believed that time would sort out any problems and all her offspring would eventually come to see the world as she did. As I grow older, the severity of her delusions becomes ever more apparent.”

John cocked his head. “I’d think the massive mausoleum out back would’ve given it away.”

“It was a different time,” explained Mycroft. “One did not question their sire. I certainly didn’t. I followed every order to the letter and prided myself in it. Up until then, I had provided her with everything she’d ever asked of me, save for one. She wished for me to find a worthy sibling.”

Fingering his blankets, John tried to ignore the soft buzz of apprehension growing in his chest. “How did you find him?”

“Hearsay, as was the common way. Rumors spoke of a brilliant young detective in London. It was quite early in what would undoubtedly be a long and remarkable career for him. Sherlock worked behind the scenes, rarely taking credit for his ingenious solutions to some of the most notorious crimes of the day.”

“But you noticed.”

“Yes. I came to London on a whim, actually. There were several other prospective candidates, men and women perched on the verge of propelling to the tops of their respective fields in science, mathematics, philosophy, and the like. One does not usually think of detectives when considering the best and brightest of society, but Mummy had already rejected so many over the years that I was willing to cast a wider net. I had Sherlock placed under observation, but within two days he had discovered all of my agents and somehow traced each and every one back to me, whom he had never met. No one had ever done that before. He was so… _proactive_. It was the most impressive logical display I’d seen in decades, and what’s more he didn’t seem to think it all that extraordinary. He was perfect: a brilliant young man with no family or close friends that would miss him. Our single meeting was enough to decide my mind. I made my recommendation to my sire, and soon after she accepted the choice."

"And you turned him just like that?"

Mycroft laughed bitterly. “Hardly. In our infinite hubris, we assumed any strong, rational mind would see the value in wielding the power that we offered. Vampires are the most influential force on this planet, John. In the interest of imparting our collective wisdom, we covertly preside over nations, rulers, and the very tides of war and peace. Awareness does nothing but paint a target on your back. For those who do not seek celebrity, there is no better placement in the affairs of the world."

He shook his head. “We approached Sherlock subtly. He was curious, of course, and understandably skeptical about our claims. It required substantial evidence to bring him round to even considering our proposal. Sherlock is not a conformist now, however, and neither was he then. He called us overreaching architects of a flawed vision, and wanted no part. But, Mummy was set on acquiring him. We saw no other choice than to make Sherlock a hostile conversion."

John's stomach dropped, freefalling into nauseated horror. "You forced him?" he choked out.

"Yes, to my great shame,” Mycroft admitted. “It wasn’t an uncommon practice in those days. We captured Sherlock and spent days attempting to convince him, to show him the opportunity we were offering and the error of his refusal. By the end it was only him and I." Mycroft's face was a mask of hardness. "He _begged_ me not to do it, John. He _pleaded_. But I ignored him, confident that I knew best and that his opinion would change after it was done. I went to retrieve my sire."

"Oh, God," John said tonelessly. A hot weight sat in the back of his throat, and behind his eyes.

Mycroft wasn’t looking at him anymore. "He entered our family that very evening. Exceptionally bloody business, when it’s an involuntary turning. I’d never seen one before his, and I never wish to again. I vividly recall it, John – the screaming, the revulsion, the grotesque ritualism. He was almost irretrievably dead before our sire was finished. And at the end, I gazed upon the near-psychotic and brutally rabid infant vampire frothing at my feet and had the audacity to call him ‘brother’ to please our sire. Privately, I reviled what I’d done. I sat aside as it happened, and I have sought his forgiveness ever since.”

Closing his eyes, John felt warm trails of tears slide silently down his cheeks. “He suffered? Badly?”

“In more ways than you can imagine, John,” he replied. “He hated me for a long time. I think he still does, on some level. But Sherlock gets bored, as you know, and despite his malice he began to embrace the opportunities that were available to him. He adapted, as I knew he would, though he never did see eye to eye with the rest of us. Mummy allowed him to leave when she decided he was old enough. He never came back. Not permanently.”

John wiped at his eyes with the heel of one hand. “Christ.”

“As for the rose garden, that story relates to his earliest days. Sherlock had been with us for seven weeks. Still newborn by our standards, you see, so we kept him sequestered for his own safety as his abilities manifested and his thirst stabilized. We knew he was a danger to himself and everyone in the manor until he could come to terms with his new life. We hid anything that might be used as a weapon and left him tied to a chair, most days. Except for during the feedings. He always looked ashamed after those.”

“Mummy congratulated me often in those first weeks. I’d chosen a fine specimen for my brother, she said. A mind worthy of the Holmes name. Friends and relations came to call on our new addition and welcome him to our illustrious family, but to Mummy’s great embarrassment he would simply insult them as viciously as he could manage. I think that was when she first realized he would not cease being an independently-minded person just for her sake. We knew he was intelligent, but what I hadn’t counted on was the extent of Sherlock’s resourcefulness.”

“One evening I came to visit him, as I often did. He rarely spoke to me during my visits, but I spoke to him, as uncomfortable as the situation made me. I talked about our family history and his proud new lineage, hoping that he would prove salvageable in the end. On this particular night, though, I found his room empty and his chair deserted. Immediately, I feared the worst. I thought he would try to escape back to London and reclaim his old life. That’s not where he went.”

“He’d escaped out the window into the gardens, and that’s where I found him after almost two hours of coordinating everyone into search parties. Amongst the roses. He had taken the woody thorns from the base of the plants and tried to open his veins, you see, in hopes that his torment would be ended. I found him sitting quietly in a pool of his own blood, petals all around. He wasn’t dead. He couldn’t die. At least, not so easily.”

“His eyes, still colored the deep black of a newborn, bore a depth of understanding not present since his turning. He wasn’t human any longer. He did not belong amongst them. His life would not end without significant effort. Do you know what he did then? He looked at me, entirely defeated, and said, ‘You’ve taken everything. My life, and my death.’.”

“I’d never had siblings before Sherlock, and although he’d only been my brother for seven short weeks, in that time I had come to learn what it meant to feel responsible for another. I decided, then, that I would protect him at any cost. So, I picked up one of the rosebuds and gave it to him, then made a promise. Like the unsightly rose-stem, I told him, something beautiful can arise out of any situation with enough patience and time. He crushed the flower in his hand and threw it aside, then told me that nothing good would ever come of it. I’d condemned him to an existence in-between. I’d robbed him of his choices, his aspirations, his purpose - and he was convinced he could never get them back.”

Mycroft stared intently at John. “His attitude remained locked in that depressing mindset ever since. I didn't know how to help him, though I tried. I never understood, until recently, that it was not my place to provide a resolution. He had to find it for himself. It seems he has, at last, found something – or rather some _one_ – who brings him into exquisite bloom.”

John sat in dumbfounded silence as Mycroft finished speaking.

He knew Sherlock loved him. Of course he did, but suddenly he saw the course of their relationship in an altered light. He had no idea that Sherlock assigned such meaning to him. Ever since they became involved, John pictured himself as a single stop in a long line of human partners that Sherlock would have throughout his life. One among many; this century’s flavor, but by no means the only one. Even with all Sherlock’s talk about there being no one else in the foreseeable future, John actively hoped there would be others. Sherlock needed someone with him, someone he could trust and rely upon. Even if it wasn’t John.

“I… had no idea,” John said quietly.

“Hmm, yes, I thought not,” Mycroft answered. “You’re the first he’s taken there. In fact, as far as I’m aware, you’re simply the first.”

“I hope I’m not the last,” he replied, distracted in his thoughts.

He didn't notice it at first, but his words had a very strange effect on Mycroft. When the vampire rose from his seat in sudden agitation, John realized he had said something unintentionally distressing. Mycroft brusquely walked to the nearby shrouded window and absently tapped on the wood-frame sill. He studied the incomprehensible markings on the nearby wall, streaks of red and black marring the patterned wallpaper.

Mycroft?” John prompted.

Mycroft turned to him, displeasure openly written on his face. “The binding is in two days. Has Sherlock ever indicated he wishes to speak with you? At all? Even in passing?”

“Not that I remember. What’s this about?”

“Something important, John. Something very important." His frown darkened noticeably. "I told him not to wait until the last moment.”

The serious tone of his voice chilled the air of the room even further. “Oh, God,” said John, unsure he wanted to hear any more.

Mycroft roamed toward the chair, but didn’t sit down. He watched John critically for several moments, until he seemed to come to a burdensome decision. “Apparently he's content in passing along his responsibilities to other people instead of bearing them himself," the vampire commented reproachfully. "I apologize that, once again, you find yourself hearing things from me rather than him. It isn’t acceptable for Sherlock to keep you ignorant when you are on the verge of binding with him.”

“Mycroft, what is it?”

The vampire carefully gripped the top the of the backrest of his chair, looking for all the world like he wanted to wring his brother’s neck for forcing him into this conversation. “I’m afraid, for the sake of practicality and expediency, there have been, in recent weeks, certain intentional occurrences of… oversimplification.”

“Oversimplification,” John echoed, processing the word. Oversimplification? “You mean lies," he translated. "You’re saying Sherlock _lied_ to me?”

"It's not as simple as-"

"Not again," John interrupted harshly, pressing a frustrated hand to his brow. Aggravation fumed inside him. “Tell me he didn’t do it _again_.”

“John, please hear me out.”

“He promised me, for God’s sake! He promised no more secrets!" John tossed the duvet back and began struggling to slide his legs over to the edge of the mattress. "I am going to _murder_ him.”

"You shouldn't be up and moving," Mycroft warned, raising his arms. "Please, lie down. I need you to _listen_."

John paused. "Three minutes," he growled as he settled back down, "and I think I'm being more than generous."

"Thank you," he said. "We've all put forth our best efforts these past weeks. You and Sherlock more than anyone. You accused us of keeping you in the dark, of not divulging our full plans. To that end, you were correct. There were certain aspects of our plan that, at the time, Sherlock and I felt would be best served if you were not made aware until the end."

This was outrageous. John was at a complete loss. "What could possibly be worth keeping from me? I warned him, after the last time. I _warned_ him..."

A hollowness filled Mycroft’s eyes. It reminded John uncomfortably of the times when he'd had to inform next-of-kin of a patient's diagnosis. “Overcoming the problems of Immune blood and adapting oneself to drink such a toxic substance isn't an easy task. You asked me, before, why no one had ever tried. I assure you, the reason is not because the solution is so unique and brilliant that no one’s ever thought of it before. It’s because no vampire would ever go so far as to consider it a viable option.”

John sat back, irritation shifting into a prickling tension that rolled over his shoulders. “What do you mean?”

“To successfully adapt to your blood, Sherlock has undergone a rather extreme measure. It’s an old spell, one rarely used any longer, but incredibly powerful. Esther initiated it in my study, at Sherlock's request, the very first evening you were here. It was in his herbal prescriptions, all this time. In the writing on the walls of this very room.”

“Mycroft,” John implored, suddenly stricken. “What did he do?”

"There was only one way that this could end with both of you alive. Only one,” Mycroft said, an edge of pity invading his voice. “Sherlock thought of it, of course, and I was skeptical, but he quickly convinced me of the gravity of his intentions. I believe it is what you might call the ‘sledgehammer approach’. We had to utterly destroy the barriers that prevented him from feeding on you. Sherlock is not simply learning how to safely digest your blood, John. He's becoming dependant on it."

The air was gone from his lungs. "What?" John barely breathed.

"It means for as long as he lives, he will only ever be able to drink from you. Vampires revile the spell. Rarely do they see a need to use it, to make such an extraordinary commitment to one single, short-lived human.” Mycroft smiled sadly at him. “Once your life ends, Sherlock will no longer have a food source."

John stared at Mycroft, barely registering the words. He felt like he had suddenly lost all feeling everywhere in his body. Time ticked into nonexistence around him. He had to say something, force something out of his mouth.

So he said the first thing that came to his head, as absurd as it was.

"He's so young.”

Mycroft blinked momentarily. "Yes, he is still quite young."

"He'll starve to death when I'm gone," John said numbly.

"Yes, John."

The absence of any sensation gave way to a massive, brewing storm of anger inside John. He breathed in deep gasps as it evolved into a choking maelstrom of rage coursing through him. It boiled up until he couldn't remember ever being so angry, not in his entire life. "How could you allow this, Mycroft? Allow me to kill him?" he shouted. "I refuse to be responsible for his death!"

Mycroft met his outrage evenly. "Precisely why we did not tell you until now. It is out of your control. Already, it is too late for it to be reversed. Sherlock asked that it remain private until he was sure he could no longer drink from the bagged stores. It’s why he’s rejected bagged blood all this time, and why he’s resisted your receiving transfusions. Your blood is the only kind he can consume."

John was shaking. He was shaking and he didn’t know whether it was from his ongoing recovery or Mycroft’s words. Both, probably. Anger and disbelief and utter betrayal scoured through him, colliding and combining until the suffocating emotional strands twisted into a crowning sense of bereavement.

Clouded by it, John staggered from the bed on flimsy legs. Mycroft stepped back and gave him room to proceed, as if reluctant to physically stop him in his state. John's body protested magnificently at being made to move so abruptly, but the discomfort paled in comparison to everything else.

“Where are you going?” Mycroft asked, alarmed, as John crossed the freezing floor.

“I’m going to _kill_ him,” John rasped, vision blurry and scalding rage hot in his throat. He reached the door and sagged against it, fingers on the handle, as he realized what he’d said. His eyes stung horribly. “God, I’m _going_ to kill him," he murmured, voice cracking. "He’s letting me kill him. That stupid, bloody, sodding _idiot_.”

A figure loomed next to him. John looked up at Mycroft, desolate.

“It’s more than that," Mycroft consoled, gentler than John had thought possible for him. "Sherlock is not one to throw away his life without sufficient cause to do so. You are the promise in the rose garden, John. You are closure. You are redemption. Through you, he sees purpose in his suffering. And I fear he has all too gladly paid the price to keep it.”

John, impassive to Mycroft's words, scrabbled at the door handle, but a decent hold eluded his impaired fingers. "How could you let him?" he spat. "You’re his brother! You’re supposed to watch out for him!"

Mycroft contained his resentment at the accusation, but only barely. “I am doing precisely that. I seek atonement for the decades of misery that my choices have brought to him,” he explained with cold resolve. “You will understand, then, that when he informed me of his plan regarding you, I could not deny him even as I knew it would lead to his premature demise. I owe him a death, John, and this is the one he has chosen. I will not interfere."

John squeezed his eyes shut, craning his head against the wall and resisting the urge to break something. "Where is he?"

Mycroft reached out and turned the handle until it clicked, then pulled the door open to allow John to pass. "Waiting for you, I expect. As he has done for over a century."

Stumbling into the hallway, John shivered as he left the supportive embrace of the room's sigils. Once he made it four steps out, he clenched his left hand into a fist and planted his right on the far side of the wall, using it for guidance. He knew exactly where to find Sherlock.

God help the bloody vampire when he did. 


	10. Connect

John ghosted through the long hallways of the Holmes manor as a pale apparition in the receding twilight. Murky shadows pooled on the fine-grained floorboards that stretched out before him, mercifully empty of other living souls. If one of the staff saw him stumbling around out of bed, they’d probably rush to alert everyone else and force him back to his room to rest. Mycroft hadn’t sent anyone after him, and for that John silently gave thanks.

Jaw set and eyes fixed, emotions churning like a boiling kettle forgotten on the stove, John had no intention of being stopped. He homed toward his target with effortless automation, barely giving any thought to his path through the labyrinthine halls. Vision-altering anger was a rarity for him, but as he blinked against the muted red color it failed to fade from the edges of his sight. He reined his temper as best he could, pressure collecting inside him like a straining barricade ready to burst wide.

Mycroft’s words burned in him, a wound cleaving deeper than he’d thought possible. Unforgivably deep. The devastation was unbearable; he was doomed to murder the person he cared for most in this world. This wasn't what he wanted, wasn't the sort of survival he'd hoped and prayed would befall them. John’s chest coiled with raging panic and heartache. _Please, God, no. Not like this._

The pain fueled his every motion. It pushed his ruined body above and beyond what it was willing to provide, compelled him to move forward even as he staggered and swayed far more severely than was wise to ignore.

John’s fingers traced a jagged, guiding path along the wall, digits chilled near numbness with bare feet to match. The drafty halls were far colder than John remembered, and he distantly regretted his failure to put on any sock or slippers. He could have done with something warmer than his thin long-sleeve shirt and wrinkled pyjamas, as well, but it was far too late to turn around.

When John reached the door to Sherlock’s temporary lab, he was out of breath and struggling to keep control over his rebellious limbs. He briefly supported himself against the wall, head spinning with awful dizziness from moving too much. How, only an hour ago, had he thought he was recovering? John fought the desire to sit down, to rest on the polished hardwood and regain his composure. If he went to the ground, there was no getting up under his own power.

He turned his head to glance at the nearby door, partially cracked and bleeding a stream of flickering light. The anger that infused him clenched down and provided a new wave of adrenaline, enough to keep him upright. John pushed his way inside, ready to deliver a blistering censure in no uncertain terms.

Inside, it was darker than he had anticipated. He'd thought he might find Sherlock casually peeking through his microscope at some slides, or perhaps glancing up in oblivious curiosity at John’s sudden arrival; dead center and ripe audience for a good shout.

The first thing John saw, though, wasn’t Sherlock. It was his antique lab equipment, sections disassembled and carefully sorted out on the wide oak table, its surface newly scarred and stained from recent experiments. Brass and copper pieces reflected red-gold in the light of the fire and single, moody lamp. Sherlock’s microscope nested snugly in a lidless box surrounded by dried straw for safety while in storage. A small stack of familiar notebooks lay unattended to one side.

Sherlock’s work, once so feverishly commanding of his attention, was finished.

The light emanating from the fireplace illuminated only the front half of the converted study. The rest was bathed in blackness, backlit by two large windows. Both had their drapes uncharacteristically drawn wide, framing a breathtaking sky of deepening dusky purple. Feathered treetops of the estate grounds brushed against a painted night sky not yet strewn with stars.

A dark silhouette, outlined against the beautiful striations of color, stood gazing out the left-hand window. The figure’s head, crowned with curly hair, angled fractionally.

“John,” he said in passive acknowledgement, tone even and infuriatingly calm.

The stream of biting words running through John’s head, a constant barrage on the way over, abandoned him. Confronted with the vampire, with an odd and unexpected scene, his mind blanked. All he had was the anger, the outrage, burning him up inside.

John clamped a hand on the nearby oak table to steady himself, hoping it wouldn’t be too noticeable. “You utter _bastard_ ,” he grated out.

Sherlock turned in the dark, shoulders aligning to accentuate his narrow form. “You’re angry,” he noted, as if it were the world’s most mundane observation.

John’s knuckles went white against the wood. “Fucking _hell_ , I’m angry.”

The vampire stepped into the light, revealing he was clad in a burgundy dress shirt and his usual tailored trousers. For a striking moment, John’s heart fluttered in something very close to relief before it was overtaken by his ire once again. It seemed their break from feeding had benefitted Sherlock even more than himself; the vampire remained disturbingly ashen, but a lovely glint of alertness lit his eyes.

Sherlock put them to use in completely devouring John's appearance. He scanned up and down John's body, eyes flicking rapidly as his brain compiled an accurate analysis of his physical state. A smugly pleased expression spread over Sherlock's face, as if John’s returned health were the grand culmination of one of his own brilliantly engineered plans.

“I see he told you,” Sherlock remarked sedately, clasping his arms behind his back. He didn’t seem much concerned about John’s obvious indignation.

Sherlock’s failure to display any sort of recognition of his reproachable actions spurred John into dangerous emotional territory. He carelessly forfeited the stability of the table and stalked across the expensive carpeting, fighting to control the spiraling, manic reaction within. "More secrets. More lies,” John spat in clipped consonants, circling in front of Sherlock.

The vampire cocked his head, eyes darting down to John’s shaking hands. "Regrettable, but warranted."

Fingers flexing uncontrollably into fists and back out, John pursed his lips and narrowly restrained himself from punching Sherlock right in his bloody mouth. “I thought we had an understanding. I thought you _trusted_ me.”

“You know I do.”

John neared the ornate mantelpiece that encompassed the fire. The dull pain in his chest was building, lungs already winded and aching. He struggled to not openly concede his difficulties and lean against the mantel. Sherlock watched him with laser focus.

“Then why didn’t we discuss this, Sherlock? Why did you and Mycroft wait until the _worst possible moment_ to tell me?”

“When would you’ve preferred it be done?” Sherlock asked sharply, voice gaining texture and finally sounding something other than mildly disinterested. “While you were so weak I thought you might shatter like glass if I touched you? While you were dying in bed, without any indication you would regain your lucidity? Look at you, John; you can barely stand upright. It’s all the _worst_ time. There’s no optimal moment for something like this.”

His response was rigid and practiced, as if reciting lines from a conversation he’d imagined a thousand times in his head. It fed the flames of John’s anger, pulsing red-hot in his veins.

“Yes, there is!” he shouted. “It’s called before you fucking _commit_ _to it_!”

Light-headedness washed through John, and for a frightening moment he thought he might actually faint. Knees nearly giving way, he clutched onto the side of the mantel and managed to hold himself up.

Sherlock was at his side inhumanly fast, reaching out to help him as he struggled to remain standing. Before the vampire could make contact, John narrowed his eyes. “Don’t touch me, Sherlock,” he warned in a dangerous voice.

Sherlock blinked and stepped back in surprise, retracting his hands. The smugness faded from his face when he registered John’s seriousness.

John closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to the cold stone and controlling his breathing. “I’ll not be the one to kill you. I’d do whatever you asked of me, Sherlock. You know I would. I’d do anything, but not that. _Never_ that. You’ve put me in a terrible position.”

“It is precisely the same as asking me to sit by and allow you to die when I could stop it,” Sherlock retorted. His voice emerged uncommonly flattened.

“No, it’s not,” John rebuked harshly, forcing the words out with his limited lung capacity. “I didn’t have a choice in it. You made that decision _for_ me.”

“You’d have tried to stop me,” he said acidly.

“You’re bloody well right I’d have tried to stop you!” John snarled.

Sherlock stiffened. “Are you saying you would prefer to be dead right now? Come on, John; we both know that’s a lie. The truth is that I prevented you from considering a horrific moral dilemma: your entire life against most of mine. The correct answer is blindingly obvious. But tell me, John, could you have brought yourself to decide? Another obvious answer: you couldn't. The guilt would've festered until it destroyed you. Between us, I'm the one with the capacity to make that choice.” He shook his head, suddenly looking quite tired. “It’s easier this way.”

He had a point. The fucking bastard had a point, and John lacked the forbearance to try and convince himself otherwise. He hated that brutal, heartless logic. What truly terrified him, though, was the placid tone with which Sherlock spoke. Easier? He’d carried this horrible knowledge around inside him for weeks – and it was _easier_?

John stared at him. “How many years would you have had after me? Four hundred? Five hundred?”

Sherlock turned slightly, brushing aside the question with a skirting glance toward the fire. “It doesn’t matter.”

John’s mouth fell open, eyes widening in disbelief. “How- how can you be so _cold_ about this? It’s your life, Sherlock!”

“And mine to choose how I spend it,” the vampire said, eyes rising in hardened defiance.

“Waste, you mean.”

“ _Spend_. The exchange of one commodity for something that holds greater intrinsic value for the purchaser. A transaction has occurred. Nothing more.”

And there it was. Sherlock, boiling their lives down to his own internal calculations and exchange rates. Regarding John like some shiny, inanimate object in a shop window, ready for purchase. Never considering his right to voice his own opinions.

“You think you bought me,” John said quietly.

Sherlock drew closer, face softening. “I bought us both.”

He reached out again, and John frowned.

“You arrogant, delusional arse,” John chastised sternly. “I said _don’t touch me_.”

Sherlock jerked back as if slapped by the force of John’s words. Confusion crossed his face; he couldn’t understand why John was reacting this way. Undoubtedly, in his mental exercises, he’d successfully resolved all conflict by now. Reality was proving far harsher.

Belligerence subsumed the vampire's body language. His gaze bored into John.

“I wish we could’ve turned you,” Sherlock said, darkly menacing. “Illegally, I don’t care. It would be so much simpler.”

“Involuntarily?” John asked with an accusatory tilt of the head. “After what happened to you? Mycroft explained it all. You’d do the exact same to me, would you?”

Sherlock’s eyes went icy. “That was different.”

“No, Sherlock, it wasn’t. You’re always looking for your own solution, everyone else be damned. If we’re going to be together – truly, together – I can’t be just another person you manipulate. It was all well and fine when we were flatmates, but this is so much heavier. You can’t buy me, Sherlock, and you can’t force me to be what you want without my consent. That’s not a partnership. It’s a hierarchy. If that’s what you want, you'd be better off ensnaring me or enthralling me or whatever it’s called.”

Sherlock looked absolutely insulted. “Ensnarement is not an option. I could never do that to you, John.”

“Really?  Because that’s how you’re treating me. I don't care how hard it is; our problems are _our_ problems. You're not protecting me by bearing the burden by yourself; you're hurting me. And then you expect me to be appreciative about it? I need to have a say. If you can’t find it in your massive ego to consider me an equal, it's all just pretense."

“I don’t think of you as unequal.”

“Let’s consider the evidence then, shall we? You intentionally kept important information from me. You’ve assigned me a devastating, life-changing role without asking. And, once again, I heard it from Mycroft rather than you.”

“Would it really have been better if I told you? Do you think my answer would be more satisfactory than his?”

“Yes," John sighed. "Infinitely. Why, despite everything, could you not just tell me yourself?”

Sherlock folded his arms and looked down at the floor as petulantly as any six-year-old.

“Oh, I see," John said. "It’s one thing to break my heart, but to see it happen in front of you – that’s unbearable, is it?"

Sherlock's unruffled demeanor shed apart like leaves in a sudden storm. He stepped forward, examining John with blazing eyes. “I’ll tell you what’s truly unbearable,” he responded with a strangely choked quality to his voice. "Discovering you abducted and killed without my knowledge. Watching the life leave your eyes. Feeling your pulse weaken and stop. It's come too close too often."

The hot and heavy feeling returned to John's throat. "It works both ways, Sherlock. The thought of you dying makes my stomach turn. My death will be the direct cause of yours. That upsets me greatly."

"It shouldn't."

John blinked back welling tears. He didn’t understand what he was hearing. “How can you possibly say that to me? After all we’ve been through, after I’ve told you again and again how much you mean to me, how can you justify that?”

“I’ve already told you, John," he said, quieting with sureness. "I’m willing to give whatever is required to keep you alive and breathing. If my life is the price, I consider it an easy trade.”

That word again. _Easy_. John swallowed hard as his throat tightened with heat. “Do you really value yourself so little?”

Sherlock crinkled his brow. “Not at all. You misunderstand, as usual. It’s not my sense of self-worth in question, which I assure you is alive and well. It’s yours, John.”

“Mine?”

His lids fluttered briefly, eyes settling on John as they filled with something very close to sentiment. “You think of yourself as bringing me low. A weight, an imbalanced substitute. This is, of course, entirely incorrect. It works both ways, as you said." Sherlock's expression cracked, raw and open and profoundly unfiltered. He voice grew quiet and achingly honest. "I would do whatever you asked of me, John. Even this. You are invaluable. Irreplaceable. Nothing is too much to give, because your worth far exceeds my own."

John's breath lodged in his throat. Mycroft’s words came floating back. _You are closure. You are redemption. Through you, he sees purpose in his suffering._

He had discounted those words, tossed them aside as useless rhetoric, but now he saw them written in Sherlock’s fragile expression. He was exposed, stripped, presenting himself to John in sacrificial offering. Ready to give everything to keep the small peace of mind they'd found together.

The heat in his throat swelled, faint and feverish, until the collected tears on John's lashes fell at last. He barely felt the wall as it collided with his back.

The vampire closed in. "I've been alive for far too long. _Far_ too long. I used to think there was nothing worse than enduring the empty, tedious centuries that stretched before me. Then I met you, John. I realized that I've simply been waiting, all this time. And that it has been worth it to do so."

John's legs finally betrayed him, buckling hard and fast. Sherlock caught him as he fell, supporting John's weight and guiding him down onto the floor. John quivered with suppressed sobs, clutching back as the vampire settled him against the wall. Sherlock knelt in front of him, slow to let go.

"It wasn't supposed to be this way," John murmured between shaky breaths.

"Wasn't it? I had my puzzles, I had my distractions,” Sherlock continued, unrelenting, “but it was _you_ who brought meaning back into the world for me. So you see, John, my life will end in every sense when you pass. You need to accept that."

John looked up at him with stinging eyes. "This was about preserving life, Sherlock. _Preserving_ it. Not indebting yours to pay for mine."

"You act as if I'm to die on the morrow," he chastised. "Perhaps I am. But if the binding succeeds, we'll have our time. We'll live a full life, together. I’ve inhabited a dozen different lives since I was turned. None of them fit, none were right. I finally get to live again. The way I want, this time. The way it’s supposed to be. With you."

“Sherlock…” John trailed, shaking his head. He pressed his palms to his face, wet with tears.

“You are the end of me,” Sherlock said softly, pulling John’s wrists away with a gentle grip. “The very end. You’re my savior and my death knell, John. I knew from the start what potential lay between us, and I gladly allowed it to run its course. There is nothing after you. I wouldn’t want there to be.”

"There's no undoing it?" John asked, though he already knew the answer.

Sherlock threaded careful fingers past his temple. "Not anymore."

“God,” he whispered.

Sherlock pressed John into the wall then, dipping his head to meet his flushed lips. John choked back a quiet sob as Sherlock moved to plant a chain of kisses on the creases of his tear-glazed eyes.

The vampire pulled back, thumbing at the wet streaks on John’s cheeks. "You are rare, John. Unique, perhaps. In a century and a half I've never met another like you. I feel almost... human, when you look at me as you do. I remember what it was to be warm. Not frozen in time, but _alive_.” He curved his hand into an intimate hold. “Please, John. Let me save you."

Closing his eyes, John allowed himself to crumble. He couldn’t do it, couldn’t condone this unjust trade. He’d never felt so emotionally and physically drained, so bare to the world around him. Sherlock did that. He scoured away the excess parts and revealed John’s core. He always had, and he always would.

Sherlock maintained contact with John as he purged his devastation with tears, still as a monolith as his arms enclosed him. John wept for the injustice of it all. He wept for the unending tiredness and pain wracking his body. He wept for Sherlock's future, and Sherlock's past, and all that John was coming to realize about how this all might end. It would be both of them or neither; there was no middle ground.

John gradually quieted, allowing the remainder of his tears to soak into Sherlock’s shirt. He felt like a wrung-out sponge. Probably looked like one, too.

“Look what you’ve done to me, you gigantic berk,” John said wearily, leaning into him.

“Nothing you haven’t already inflicted upon me, I assure you,” Sherlock muttered. He clasped John’s frigid hands, feeling their temperature, and exhaled a discontented sigh. “Let's get you off this floor.”

Sherlock clambered to his feet, helping John to rise with significant greater effort. His limbs felt the consistency of jelly, muscles sore and spent. Sherlock took him under one arm and led him into the dark portion of the room where a closed door stood sentinel on one wall.

On the other side was an adjoining bedroom. It was far smaller than the one they shared, but still lavishly furnished with antique furniture. A faint musty aroma prevailed, as if the room was aired out at infrequent intervals. The bedclothes appeared stiff and unused.

John shivered against Sherlock as he shut the door behind them. The room was absolutely freezing, much like the rest of the house.

"How long since this place was last used?" John asked through chattering teeth.

"Not since one of the Georges reigned. The fifth? Or was it the sixth?" He shrugged indifferently before leading John to the bed, making him lie down on the duvet to rest. "It's small enough that it should warm quickly," he reasoned.

Sherlock tossed a thick knit blanket onto the bed next to John, then walked to the cold fireplace and busied himself with stacking cobwebbed firewood onto the grate. John half-heartedly pulled the blanket onto himself, digging his hands and feet underneath in a bid to find warmth. He closed his eyes and concentrated on calming his rattled equilibrium.

He must have drifted more than planned, because the next thing John knew something nudged his arm, causing him to blink upwards. Sherlock sat beside him on the edge of the bed, light from the newly-stoked fire reflecting across the wall behind him. The vampire was in the process of peeling the blanket back from John's stationary body.

"Better?" Sherlock asked, noticing his eyes were open.

The room felt incrementally warmer than its previous subzero state, but John wasn't entirely sure whether it was due to the fire. "Yeah, actually," he replied, lolling his head to one side.

John endured the requisite round of gentle presses and touches from Sherlock as he satisfied his concerns about John’s health. The vampire's eyes passed over him in sync with his hands, liquid smooth and curious. John periodically shivered from the ambient chill and repeatedly flexed his finger joints to restore at least some of the feeling.

It wasn’t long before a frown developed on Sherlock's face. He looked up, clearly prepared to deliver his weighty conclusion.

“Leave it,” John requested before he could say anything. “No more diagnoses. I know I’m in a bad way.”

Sherlock’s mouth tightened as he retracted back. “I’m surprised you made it here all by yourself, to be quite honest.”

John caught his hand as it gusted past his waist. “What else was I to do? You left me.”

Something inexplicably withered in Sherlock's expression. His shoulders dropped a bit as he pulled away. “I had to leave,” he replied with unease. “As soon as you were out of danger, I left. I had to.”

"I wish you hadn't. I didn't know where you'd gone, when I woke."

Sherlock covered John's hand with both of his, their skin equally pale. His frown grew scornful and brittle. “At times your breathing was so shallow I thought it had stopped altogether," he said softly, eyes fixated on their hands. "Sometimes you convulsed as if on the verge of having a seizure. Help was often nearby, so it was bearable. But the rest of it… you were very confused, John. Most of the time you didn’t seem to know who I was. I tried to tell you stories to remind you about our lives together, but nothing helped when it got bad." He paused, rocking slightly where he sat. "I still had to feed. You tried to fight me, John, but I had to do it.”

None of this sounded entirely familiar, but John was aware of the gaps in his recollections over the last four days. He squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “I know you did. It’s fine,” he said.

The vampire looked genuinely disturbed. “No, it's not. You’ve never lived in fear of vampires. You’ve never seen a hunt. Combative prey… it brings out the worst side of our nature. It’s satisfying to forcibly feed on a human, to hear their cries and know they can’t stop you.”

“It’s not your fault,” John tried, knowing his words were falling flat.

Sherlock rubbed John's hand methodically. “Sometimes you came out of it and recognized me. You'd relax and let me do it, then. Other times, you… didn’t. You were terrified and panicked, but I made you submit. I could smell the fear on you.” He shut his eyes, grimacing. “I enjoyed it, John. It was you, and I hate that I enjoyed it. I had to leave.”

John pulled Sherlock down next to him, turning and tucking his curly-haired head against his chest. “I don’t remember any of that, Sherlock. Not a single moment. I’m sorry you had to see it.”

He vibrated with anger, burying his face into John. “If I see them again… I want to kill them for doing this to you.”

“I know how you feel,” John answered delicately, stroking through his hair.

Sherlock nuzzled against John, drawing himself fully on top of the duvet so that they lay parallel and angled towards one another. John watched the light on the walls, continuing to gently card through Sherlock's curls. The temperature in the room was approaching comfortable, now that he thought about it.

After a time, Sherlock shifted his head to look up at him. “Are we all right, John?"

He stopped his petting. “No, I don’t think we are," John admitted, "but that doesn’t mean we won’t be again.”

The vampire seemed assuaged by that, relaxing a bit. He continued to silently watch John. Not critically or with some specific purpose, but in the introspective sort of way that John had sometimes seen in months past. It only happened occasionally, when he turned quickly and caught Sherlock off guard. Like he was parsing John out; a confounding, perpetual problem.

Caressing slowly up and down his back, John let Sherlock study him to his heart’s content. The vampire smelled rather good, this close; like aged wood, well-worn leather, and the barest hint of soap. He’d had time to clean up properly, unlike John who probably came off far earthier to the discerning nose. The scent washed through him, immeasurably comforting.

As the silence stretched out, John couldn't stop his mind from drifting back to Sherlock's voluntary fate. Unbidden, he suddenly imagined the body in his arms slack and unmoving, breathing stopped, eyes blank and empty. John's stomach twisted into knots, and he clutched Sherlock tighter.

Sherlock had chosen him.  Despite everything he could have seen or become, the centuries of life awaiting him had been inelegantly tossed out the window. There were magnificent deeds never to be accomplished and brilliant people never to be met. Sherlock had passed it over for a chance at something far less grand. John wondered if he would live up to the sheer immensity of that choice.

“Will I be enough for you?” John whispered, breaking the quiet.

Sherlock surfaced from his entranced state, his focus constricting to a narrow pinpoint aimed directly at John. His hands ventured a slow slide along the seam of John's shirt, toward the hem. “I’ve experienced you a number of ways already,” he said contemplatively, voice filling the space between them and sending a tingle up John’s spine. “A companion, a friend, a partner. So far, the results seem promising.”

For the first time in quite a while, John's body did not feel particularly cold. He dropped his hand through Sherlock's hair and onto the base of his skull, letting his fingertips press into the vampire’s neck. “For the rest of your life? Just me?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and hummed lightly at John’s touch. When he reopened them, his pupils were dilating. The hand at John's waist dipped suggestively beneath his shirt, and he knew what Sherlock was thinking about. A creeping interest coiled at the base of John's spine.

It was probably an abysmal idea. John reflected on his sore body, his aching head, and the very real chance that his heart could give out from anything more strenuous than walking. Resting was supremely advisable. He then considered the palm stroking his bare skin, and the mental conflict unexpectedly became a draw.

Sherlock bent in and gripped John firmly by the hip, kissing him soundly for a long moment. As his arm reached around to press at the small of John's back, it was more than obvious what he wanted. John’s reasons against it became harder to justify with each passing second.

Sherlock broke off, but stayed close. “The wisest person I know once told me something I think you ought to hear," he breathed. "I don’t regret you, John. I never will.”

With that, the deadlock disintegrated.

John laid into him with ferocious speed, hooking his limbs around Sherlock’s body and assailing his mouth with lips and tongue and teeth. Pure distress poured forth; emotional wreckage desperately seeking absolution, crashing into the other man in a wet tide of tasting and taking.

Sherlock, unprepared for the aggression, signaled his shock by whining breathily into John’s invasive mouth. The vampire was accustomed to a more sedate John, a patient version aimed at acclimation and learning. Several seconds of embattled submission followed before Sherlock collected himself enough to retaliate. He locked onto John in return, intent to establish his own presence.

They were long past cautious exchanges. John kissed Sherlock deeply, thoroughly, unapologetically. He pressed on until a deep instinctual drive reared its primordial head, compelling John to seek further intimate contact. Chemical need flowed in his veins, stronger and more urgent than he’d ever felt for anyone else. It bled through him, lungs straining as they heaved, core warming with physical interest. He didn’t intend to ignore it.

When John separated their mouths, Sherlock’s fingers dug into his back to prevent him from pulling further away. “ _John_ ,” he hissed out, the name unearthly and tainted with need.

“One second,” he breathed back.

John kept them apart only long enough to push at Sherlock’s lithe shoulders and roll the vampire onto his back. Sherlock’s darkened eyes tracked him, eager and acute as John settled on top. The new position allowed for increased leverage, and John leaned in to take full advantage of it.

Sherlock’s mouth welcomed him, pliant and receptive. And surprisingly warm; John was producing more than enough hot, humid breath for the both of them, flooding the interstitial space and passing it to the vampire. His hands clamped greedily onto Sherlock, running long routes up his neck and into his halo of dark curls.

Sherlock slid his mouth up along John’s jaw and nipped toward his ear, sucking at the sensitive skin below it where he usually bit. John pressed into the contact, lips falling open, and rewarded him with a resonant hum. One of Sherlock’s hands curved around the back of John’s neck, effectively trapping him between palm and mouth, the other gripping tight at his side. It felt so much better without the fangs.

John savored the attention, both physical and psychological. He knew he was the dominant subject occupying that depthless brain, the only thing Sherlock cared to think about right now. Commanding his focus was intoxicating, and he didn’t want it to stop.

So he set about obliterating any lingering competition. John tugged at Sherlock’s hair until his face was level again, eyes mesmerized and nearly devoid of their vibrant silvery-blue irises. John spared a second to gauge his state, then latched back down onto his mouth and unleashed everything.

He employed every trick of the tongue, every observation of Sherlock’s sensitivities, every unfair advantage he could think of, and the result was magnificent. Sherlock clasped a shaking arm around John’s back at the first skim of the teeth down his neck. When the tug of his lips became too sensitive to bear, the hand on John’s spine tensed downward until their hips met flush. By the time John forcefully commandeered Sherlock’s tongue, the first whimper burst from that beautiful throat.

John could lose himself, kissing Sherlock like this.

 _You’ve been lost in him from the very start_ , his mind unhelpfully provided.

“J-John-,” Sherlock mumbled around his oppressive kissing. “Ple-”

The growing tension in his body concurred with Sherlock’s muffled protestations. It still wasn’t enough. John reluctantly paused, lifting off from Sherlock and hearing him make a distinct noise of disappointment.

He looked down at his detective, proud beyond belief to find Sherlock panting hard and his skin patched with pinkish hues. John had never seen a vampire any color other than varying shades of unblemished cocoa or ivory. Sherlock appeared very near to dazed, face alight with heavy-lidded want. He watched John expectantly as he caught his breath.

They could be dead within days and by God, John refused to leave this life without ever feeling Sherlock’s bare skin beneath his hands. He wanted him. It was a hot itch under his skin that had never been satisfied, not since the first night months ago when he awoke to a sticky mess in his boxers and Sherlock’s name on his tongue.

John’s head swirled with growing dizziness from all the activity, but Sherlock looked so goddamned inviting lying there like that. It would drive anyone to the brink of frustration. John unthinkingly pulled at the hem of Sherlock’s burgundy shirt, dislodging the expensive fabric from where it tucked into his trousers.

He caught himself, though, with a mental warning before he did anything else. His hand hovered over the loose edge of the shirt, nearly trembling in the desire to make contact.

“Is this all right?” John asked, voice breaking in a manner too embarrassing to contemplate. He was going to need a very cold shower if Sherlock didn’t want to proceed.

“Yes, yes, of course it is, you idiot,” Sherlock answered thinly, although the insult sounded more like an endearment. He grabbed John’s hand and guided it palm-down onto the exposed skin of his abdomen.

John luxuriated in pushing his hand up under the shirt. Sinfully smooth skin passed under his fingers and palm, a torturously long runway that extended for what felt like miles. Sherlock tilted his head away ever so slightly, mouth and nostrils flaring fractionally as John touched him. Against John’s hand, his ribs flexed as his chest expanded.

John made slower work of the buttons than he would’ve preferred, held back by his imprecise fingers. One by one they came undone and revealed the pale flesh underneath.

The vampire was marvelously sculpted and trim. Sherlock shrugged out of his shirt with help from John, skin blindingly pale and yet ethereally gorgeous. In an odd way, he looked timeless rather than young; there was an indescribable quality to him that suggested a sort of pristine preservation.

Carefully grazing the skin over a toned oblique with the base of one palm, John let out a measured breath. “God, you’ve looked like this since…”

Eyebrows drawn, Sherlock studied his own torso as if unsure what had caught John’s attention. “Eighteen eighty-seven,” he replied.

John swallowed, throat thick with dryness. “Right, then.”

Heart thumping solidly inside chest, John’s hands made their first excursion onto that beautiful body. Fortunately, Sherlock seemed impervious to his cold fingers as he languidly explored the new territory. The vampire didn’t fare as well when John employed his mouth, summoning rumbling hums from the chest beneath his lips. John concluded Sherlock’s collarbones were simply indecent, and the curves of his ribs entirely distracting. Mouthing and sucking at his nipples produced satisfying waves of shivers through his muscles, accompanied by uncharacteristic cursing under his breath.

Hands soon obstructed John’s reach. After a moment of fending them off he realized Sherlock was pulling at his own long-sleeve shirt, trying to remove it. He obediently raised his arms, clearing the passage for the cloth to be yanked over his head and off his body.

When he reared back up, Sherlock’s eyes suddenly filled with taut interest. They flicked rapidly, soaking in massive amounts of new data. John could almost see the neurons behind his eyes lighting up as he stored the information in the vast recesses of his mind, combining it with data previously gleaned to create a complete file.

Sherlock silently reached to trace the scar on John’s left shoulder. John let him touch, testing the shape and feel of the wound that had brought them together. The detective’s eyes moved deliberately, lost in his thoughts as he analyzed everything.

John waited as he reverently brushed the scarred skin. Sherlock had heard the story of his injury several times, but John still expected a comment. A deduction, perhaps, about the caliber of the bullet or its velocity upon impact. None came.

John had never thought of himself as particularly special. Minus a bullet wound or two, there were thousands of other men just like him all over London. Sherlock had seen a great number of them – on Molly’s mortuary table or at Lestrade's crime scenes, dead and maimed and decomposing. John knew all of his reactions upon seeing those bodies. The curious lift of his eyebrows when he studied wound patterns and contusion formation. The gleeful smile when he couldn’t identify the cause of death immediately. Self-satisfied smirks, sighs of annoyance, and all the rest. As Sherlock studied him, though, John realized he didn’t know the look upon his face.

John had his share of girlfriends and lovers over the years, even a few friends-with-benefits and one night stands. But none of those women – not one – had ever looked at him this way.

He saw revelation in Sherlock’s eyes. Wonder. Awe had never been directed at him so profoundly.

It worried him.

“It’s just me,” John said softly, spreading a hand along the side of Sherlock’s motionless face.

“No,” Sherlock answered. He slowly slid his hand up over John’s hip and stomach, expression lightening. “It’s _you,_ John. It’s everything. I can read it all. Your whole life story.” His hand rose to hover next to John’s face. “The sorrow.” Lower, near the scar on his shoulder. “The sacrifice.” Down near his groin. “The passion. I see it.” Sherlock’s eyes lifted, entirely enraptured. “You’re perfect, John.”

He blinked back, startled. “No one’s perfect,” John countered after a moment.

“Well no, of course not,” Sherlock said, eyes narrowing in a surge of logical inspiration. “I was merely trying to capture the state of perfect knowledge I now possess about you. I’ve never known someone so entirely, or had access to pure information like this. I’ll be processing it all for days, for _weeks_ -“

John shut him up with another full-mouthed kissed, blocking any and all excess noise except that which reverberated through his throat and chest. As soon as Sherlock settled down and stopped trying to speak, John relented.

Sherlock’s face grew solemn as his fingers journeyed to the dull grey handprint left by Esther. “What did she say?”

John looked at him, failing to hide the sadness in his eyes. “It’s not impossible,” he answered truthfully.

Spreading his hand to cover the smaller print, Sherlock pressed down on the skin. “Just improbable, is that it?”

He didn’t have an answer. John pulled Sherlock’s hand down from his shoulder, threading their fingers together and leaning over to kiss the side of his unhappy face. “I have faith in you. In us, together,” he comforted.  

Sherlock turned his head, meeting John forehead to forehead. “Then so do I,” he said softly.

They kissed slowly, curling in on one another with intimate focus. John’s earlier zealousness was spreading into something deeper, something seamless and salient. Their physical language, honed from weeks of feeding, allowed for an almost intuitive harmony; mouths meshing, limbs instinctively locking, comfortable holds and natural weight displacements. John had never experienced such effortless connection. Words were too inelegant.  

Sherlock, probably without meaning to, expressed broad emotional ideas with every touch. His curiosity as his fingers travelled, his desire for John to stay close through possessive lips and hooked wrists, the suppressed hurt he was trying to hide. They moved fluidly and easily; synchronous hearts, as if they’d known how to do this all their lives.

Their naked torsos grazed together. Sherlock’s muscles flexed underneath him, lean and strong beyond what should be physically possible. He could break John in an instant, if he wanted, and yet John held absolutely no fear that it would happen, even by accident. Sherlock could be absent-minded about certain things, but never when it came to inadvertently injuring John.

Skin tingling with stimulation, John’s baser brain functions urged him to move on. His hands delved under the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers, intentions unspoken but obvious.

“Just tell me,” John huffed around Sherlock’s greedy lips. “Just tell me when you want me to stop.”

“How about never,” he purred back.

A light sweat broke out over John's body. His left hand flew to the vampire’s belt as though magnetized, clutching at the buckle. “You’re sure?”

Sherlock nipped at him, eyes black as pitch. “Aren’t you?”

With a sore lack of deftness, John blindly fumbled at the buckle as Sherlock held onto him. Once it was undone he yanked the loose end in one rough movement, whipping the belt out of the loops with a loud snap of leather.

Sherlock grunted briefly as it jerked his pelvis. “I’ll consider that a yes,” he said, smiling into John’s mouth.

The vampire reluctantly let go as John shifted down his body. He knelt between Sherlock’s legs and settled a hand on each of his clothed thighs, then slid them around to grip the backs of his legs.

“Here’s something I learned back in uni,” he teased.

John leaned over the fly of Sherlock trousers and started teething at the buttons. His mouth, as it turned out, was far more precise than his hands. John opened them with expert care, then moved to the zipper.

A muffled “ _Jesus_ ,” came from above as John’s chin brushed the fabric over Sherlock’s crotch. A hand gripped into his hair, trying to guide him but failing spectacularly.

Slim hips appeared as John tugged down the trousers. Sherlock shifted slightly, movements emphasizing the sinuous lines and setting his leanness on full display. John had no idea he could find male anatomy so attractive.

A pair of dark grey pants followed, accompanied by a prominent shape outlined against the material. John felt a tingling rush through his body.

This being, centuries-old and nigh-impervious to age, was straining in his clothes. For him.

The fingers in his hair clawed loosely, compelling him to continue. Instead, John glanced up. Sherlock watched him from an impossibly obscene angle, wearing the lewdest expression John had ever witnessed. It was made all the more arousing by its obviously unintentional nature. God, he had no idea what he looked like, did he?

“Bit excited?” John asked.

His question was answered by something between a snarl and a groan.

Feeling merciful, John quickly pulled the trousers all the way off his legs and tossed them away. It only made Sherlock look longer and leaner.

It struck John how not-weird it felt to have a nearly naked man splayed out before him. The width of his shoulders, the narrowness at the waist, the complete lack of familiar female curves. The body was different, but the feeling entirely the same. Want, desire, trust. Amplified, but the same.

John didn’t feel even a bit of reservation as he removed the final article of clothing from Sherlock’s hips. He emerged hard, wetted, and flushed a dark pink. His blood must’ve been pounding in his veins to achieve that shade.

Sherlock, for his part, glanced down at his own erection with mistrust. He looked to John questioningly, seeking confirmation for whether his body had done it to his liking, all by itself.

John smoothed an exploratory hand up his thigh. “Christ, you’re gorgeous like that,” he said, smiling. “No hiding from me this time. I get to see it all, okay?”

The vampire nodded fervently, and John traced inward toward the firmed flesh. He’d never handled another man, not like this, but Sherlock shuddered and tensed as John’s fingers slowly caressed him. He painted a gratifying picture.

Not enough for Sherlock, though. His iron fingers lashed out to clamp onto John's arms, pulling him down in a bid for increased contact. John fell into his incisive grip, the bare pelvis underneath him enthusiastically moving against him. Sherlock’s erection rubbed into John’s pyjamas, leaving streaks of damp and seeking him out under the material. When he located the noticeably soft parts of John’s anatomy, he abruptly stopped.

“John,” Sherlock sighed, disappointed.

“Yeah, I’m- I’m not there yet,” he replied contritely from inside the nest of Sherlock’s limbs.

They were thinking the same thing. John’s vascular system was decimated and inefficient. Tasks that required substantial blood volume were quite possibly beyond him. John rested his chin on Sherlock’s chest. He could still get the vampire off, at least, even if it wasn’t going to happen for him.

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock clearly wasn’t satisfied with that response. He shoved a hand down between them, searching quickly in the vicinity until he grabbed hold of what he was looking for. An intensely enjoyable sensation burst through John’s body, and he gasped aloud.

Sherlock started moving his hand at lightning speed and John resisted the urge to double over. “Jesus, just give me a minute!”

Intent on getting him up, the vampire ignored him, stroking hard and fast. John fumbled at Sherlock’s arm, trying to get him to slow down. He responded by compressing John closer to his body with his free hand, caging him and leaving him helpless to stop it. The radiating waves of stimulation gathered tight in the base of John's stomach, curling into a hot ball and rapidly expanding to his groin. Stars clouded his eyesight.

“Come on, John,” Sherlock encouraged as he worked. “You did it before. You can do it again.”

“Fu- Sherlock,  _God_ ,” John groaned into his neck. His vision darkened as his veins constricted around his limited blood supply, pushing what existed into the far corners of his body. The manual stimulation continued despite his increasing protests, until John was nearly bucking into his hand.

Sherlock finally stopped and cupped him. Heart hammering and openly sweating, John caught his breath against Sherlock's clavicle as the vampire squeezed lightly at the growing bulge. He rotated his hips into the touch, a vulgar moan passing his lips. All around them, the room seemed to be attempting a slow spin.

“Serviceable,” Sherlock decreed in a coarse whisper.

Thumbs hooked into the elastic waistband of John’s pyjamas. Sherlock adopted calmer movements as he slid them, pants and all, down his legs. John aided in kicking them off once they were low enough.

Barriers gone, John rose up on shaky elbows from between Sherlock's legs and drank in the image before him. Sherlock, multi-hued yet pale, a flat expanse of musculature over a swelling chest, curly hair enticingly ruffled, looking like he'd stepped out of a master sculptor’s block of marble.

Eyes bright, Sherlock gripped onto his forearms, raising his thighs a bit to settle closer around John's legs, gently pressing at him. John tilted his head, glancing down into the dark cleft between them where they almost touched, hot and weighted and yearning. A spasm shook his left arm.

"Fuck," John said, feeling a bit on high. They looked unbelievably fantastic together. He met Sherlock's pale eyes. " _Fuck_."

"My thoughts precisely," he replied. A dark and heavy timbre had infested Sherlock's voice.

John brought them together in a press of flesh, and a simultaneous electric shock seemed to ripple through both of their bodies. Sherlock jolted especially hard as his unobstructed, sensitive skin met John’s abdomen. John cautiously shifted, and the result was a glorious sight; Sherlock's eyes quivered, mouth falling open, hands clamping onto John’s wrists with a sweat-laden grip.

Emboldened, John plowed a deliberate, friction-filled path up the crease of his groin, exalting in the smoothness of the vampire’s skin. By the second run, the trail smeared with his own leaking fluids, John had to bite back an octave-shattering outburst.

Sherlock breathed against John’s cheek in short, desperate gasps. His fingers curled up towards John’s biceps, searching for purchase. John angled his body until Sherlock's erection dug hard into the ridge of his hipbone, and rocked against him. The movement tore a harsh moan from the back of the vampire's throat, pitched unrecognizably low.

“You like that?” growled John, dizzy with fascination. Adjusting his arms, he swiveled until Sherlock was lined up again and repeated the undulating motion.

“Nnnh,” Sherlock whined through clenched teeth, into his ear. “Jo- _ugh_ …”

He’d never heard Sherlock make such noises, so John kept on at an agonizingly slow pace worthy of bringing anyone to their knees. It wasn’t long before Sherlock was desperate for more contact; his legs squeezed tighter, hips canting repeatedly upwards, seeking out John any way he could. He blinked up pleadingly, panting as if he’d just completed a marathon.

John eased back on his knees. His need, growing stronger, thrummed molten in his veins. His breathing picked up as his brain circled round, contemplating how very much he would enjoy penetration. Sherlock would undoubtedly let him do it. Perhaps he even wanted it. Tonight wasn’t planned, though; John didn’t have any lube, and his knowledge suffered from a severe lack of male-male experience. He wanted this to be nothing but positive for Sherlock.

So, he spread Sherlock's legs wider around his hips and nudged forward until they were perfectly slotted. John took both their lengths in one slippery hand, aligning them. As they touched, an uncontrollable shiver of pleasure passed uninhibited through his body. Sherlock made a shuddering noise and tensed against him, one hand shooting down to cover John’s where he held them together.

Blood rushing, light-headed, John reeled in a thickening fog of sensation and emotion. He bowed his head over the dark, close space between them. The sound of their ragged breathing rose amplified, the heady scent of sweat and intimacy drifting pungent on the air. John tacked his free hand through Sherlock’s hair, feeling the damp silkiness. God, how was it possible to love someone this much?

"John," Sherlock rasped, hovering on the edge of freefall.

"I've got you," John breathed back in brittle tones. He spread his fingers in Sherlock’s curls.

John kissed him as he started rocking his pelvis, swallowing both their moans with the first long slide of flesh on flesh. The vampire’s mouth parted wet and open for him, his hand between them briefly scrabbling at John’s fingers in an attempt to either manually feel what was happening or hopelessly influence their movements. John hissed into his teeth as he established a rhythm, grinding hard until Sherlock’s hands shot up to embed themselves in his back.

As the thrusts picked up speed, Sherlock’s lips drifted away from John. His neck arched back into a lean line, the tendons and muscles straining. John huffed roughly into his pale throat, hot and focused, treasuring each and every unintelligible sound spouting from his mad detective. He tasted Sherlock’s skin, melting into him, submerging his mind in every sensation. It was incredible having Sherlock wrapped around him, succumbing to his baser needs and proving that he wasn't as far from human as he thought. This was what heaven felt like, John decided.

A tightening tension settled in John’s groin, and with it came a strange perception of the surreal. Their mutual arousal was heightening against his hand, fingers noticeably slickening, erections sliding faster with every push of John’s hips. Their sounds intermingled, and John couldn’t separate one voice from the other over the blood pounding in his ears.

The colors in front of his eyes mutated, staining Sherlock's skin with rippling shades of green and red. Blood surging, his heart thudded an unnatural rhythm against a too-small rib cage. Something was drastically wrong; he lost awareness of his limbs, fighting to regain control over himself, but it was as if trying to stop a boulder tumbling down a mountainside. His senses shattered under the torrent, throat vibrating as he noiselessly cried out-

The world broke.

John didn’t know he had blacked out until he suddenly heard himself hyperventilating. A swirling mess of disorientation filled his head, and all he felt were the rapid, deep breaths plunging in and out of his lungs. Slowly, he registered a coldness washing over him as his circulatory system struggled for equilibrium. Oddly, the tightness in his groin remained.

Proper eyesight gradually returned. John realized he lay as a limp, smothering weight on top of Sherlock’s chest. Long arms encircled him, keeping him in a steady hold as the room coasted to a moderate spin.

John clenched his eyes shut, frustration coursing through him. He couldn't even manage this simple thing, this biological imperative. His thundering heart rate progressively slowed.

Nimble fingertips brushed gently across the back of his neck, prompting John to finally lift his face upwards. The glow of interrupted coitus was fading from Sherlock's expression. It was swiftly being replaced with grim concern that implied an unacceptably distressing problem.

Sherlock didn’t say anything as he watched John. He didn’t need to. His pale eyes said enough.

 _I love you_ , they implored. _Let me save you._

Functioning separately was no longer an option. It had never been an option. They needed one another in every way imaginable.  John understood, then. They were already bound, spell or no spell. Sherlock could no sooner let him go than remove his own heart or lungs or brain. Connection was not the challenge. They did that as easily as breathing. No, it was reconciling and accepting an autonomous half; another who would unfailingly, even self-detrimentally, provide when you yourself could not.

John closed his eyelids.

And he gave in.

The vampire cradled John closer to his body, holding on for a long, drawn out moment. John slackened, breath ghosting out over the skin beneath his cheek. He felt Sherlock breathing beneath him, a steady rhythm guiding him back to a normal respiratory pattern. Sherlock’s handling grew bolder as he discerned John’s compliance, arms interlocking securely under his shoulder joints and around his back.

The turn was cautious and deliberate. Sherlock pushed an elbow out against the bed until, as one, they eased into a smooth roll.

“Careful, careful,” John murmured against him, stomach lurching from the imbalance.

“I’ve got you,” Sherlock echoed as they tipped aside.

Sherlock settled John against the pillow, ensuring he was safely braced by gravity. John grappled for his bearings as Sherlock arched above him, body taut as a violin string. He planted an arm to either side of John’s shoulders.

"All right?" Sherlock asked in a low voice, eyes piercing through the dark.

John's vocal chords felt atrophied. "Yeah- just. Yeah. Dizzy," he etched out.

Sherlock studied him tentatively for a few seconds before bending over to deliver a careful kiss, both worried and appreciative. John’s throat stuttered as Sherlock’s erection rubbed wetly against his thigh. His interest clearly remained, prominent and untarnished.

John expected it to be quick, but the kiss kept on, growing in depth and intensity as Sherlock gauged his limits. He was relatively sure Sherlock would stop, if asked, but as a sticky hand enveloped the side of John’s neck, his interest in doing so dwindled. Sherlock broke off for periodic exchanges of air, thumb briefly stroking John’s face, before delving back in. The gap between them receded each time, until John felt the return of skin against his own.  

When John reached up to graze Sherlock’s chest, his kissing grew insistent. Soon the vampire was assertively kneeing John’s legs apart, spreading him wide and settling in to mimic their previous position. He saddled himself eagerly between John’s thighs, glancing down at his splayed anatomy with curiosity. He flared his eyebrows as if logging a significant number of new ideas.

Hearing no protests, Sherlock swiftly clamped their resurging erections together with his right hand. John whimpered against his pillow, hard-won control unexpectedly torn away in the blink of an eye. He felt delirious and clammy, but God, he didn't want Sherlock to stop. A palm flattened against his heaving chest, smoothing down his skin until it was replaced by Sherlock's whole body, wrapping him close.

Sherlock rocked against him, gently at first as if testing the waters, then harder as it became apparent that John wasn't keen on stopping him. Spine-melting waves pulsed through John with every movement, breaking his already fractured self into infinitesimal pieces. He clutched at Sherlock’s body, absorbing the motions as he pressed close. Sherlock suddenly twisted and flicked the fingers of the hand enclosing them, sending kinetic spasms stampeding up through John’s muscle groups and quickly transforming him into a quivering mess.

“Fuck, _ah_ \- again-” John begged disjointedly, shuddering against the bed.

“What, this?” Sherlock asked with feigned innocence. He manipulated his fingertips again, and John convulsed. He tried to say _Jesus, where did you learn that_ but all that came out was a simpering whine.

Grinning broadly, Sherlock leaned in and kissed him. As he guided their bodies together, his skin burned hot under John's palms, drawn from the friction between them. He wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s hips, helping to press them together.

Nerves burning in stimulation, John sensed a sober determination settling into Sherlock’s body language. Their kisses grew sloppier, less purposeful, as John’s mouth refused to properly close, until Sherlock broke off altogether and shoved his face into John’s neck. John tilted his head, panting hard as Sherlock ground into him at an alarming pace. He felt himself ramping up, the telltale coiling in his abdomen and familiar rush of blood through his body.

John knew he was falling again, mere minutes away from another fainting spell. His view of Sherlock spun out of control as the disorientation intensified. “Sherlock…” he moaned, sightless.

“Stay with me, John,” a voice rumbled at his throat.

The darkness split, and he caught sight of shimmering colors and cascading flashes. Neurons exploded, switchblade-sharp as a dazzling beacon scorched ashy trails throughout his body. He saw the starry lights of midnight reflected in the Thames, and smelled wet pavement and fresh-brewed tea, acidic chemicals and the salty sweet scent of adrenaline.

One beloved voice cleaved through it all, a litany of unbroken syllables broaching the chasm.

“-John _God_ JohnJohn _John_ -"

It choked off, the satisfying sound of Sherlock completely losing his ability to form coherent sounds. He shook hard, contorting  into a tense shape around John until a single, inhuman noise reverberated from his throat. Warmth bled across John’s belly, the sensation barely there a moment before he loosed a garbled shout in response. The muscles throughout his body contracted in concentric, blinding crests until he was left thoroughly trembling.

Sherlock huffed above him in the fading aftershocks of his own release. Hands were back at John’s face, tilting it upward so Sherlock could deliver a small series of kisses all around his mouth. “You have to let go, now,” he said after a moment, lips pressed to John’s cheek.

John opened his eyes, dislodging his arms from around Sherlock’s back and loosening the hold of his legs. He spread his sore limbs wide, allowing Sherlock to rear up and expose what lay underneath.

Their emissions streaked John's chest and stomach, cooling on his skin in an artfully abstract pattern. Sherlock admired his work with far too much pride. "Look at you,” he sighed. “Beautiful."

“I feel rather sullied, actually,” John responded hoarsely.

“When you’re sullied by me, it’s one and the same,” Sherlock noted as he reached out to grab the first article of clothing he could find. It happened to be John’s shirt.

As the soft fabric gently cleaned the mess off of him, John squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, John,” Sherlock said, tossing the soiled garment aside.

“I wanted it to be special. Our first time,” John continued, remorseful for his poor showing. “You deserve it, you do.”

Tension sank in around Sherlock’s eyes as he gazed at John. He ducked his head, pressing his brow to the skin of John’s stomach. “It’s all I wanted,” he said, words muffled. “You. That’s all.”

Sweaty strands of hair clung to Sherlock’s forehead. John brushed them away with one hand. “Whatever’s left of me, you have it,” he promised. “I’ve been yours for longer than I’ve known.”

Sherlock gripped him by the waist, rising up and crawling forward until he reached John’s mouth for a languid kiss. John brought a hand to his shoulder, and Sherlock abruptly stopped. He glanced at John’s fingers, distinctly cool against his skin, and sighed.

Sherlock shot off to retrieve the discarded blanket, and was soon maneuvering up alongside John and draping it over both of them. His body still smoldered with the heat generated from their exertions.

“You’re so warm,” John said tiredly, snuggling around Sherlock underneath the thick cloth. “It’s wonderful.”

“You made me warm,” Sherlock confided softly. He rubbed his hands over John’s bare skin, trying to help increase the temperature.

Sleeping until tomorrow afternoon sounded a delightful plan. John fell drowsily into Sherlock’s embrace, trading periodic, lazy kisses with his lover. They were lovers now, weren’t they? Officially. He had his first male lover. And his last, too, if he thought about it.

The word triggered memories of melancholy voices floating through Mycroft's study.

“ _Tristan und Isolde_ ,” he muttered sleepily into the curve of Sherlock’s bicep.

“Hm?” the vampire asked, far more awake than John.

“Nothing,” he replied. John pressed his face into Sherlock’s chest, letting the familiar scent ease his mind.

Sherlock stayed still long enough for John to begin to drift off toward sleep. After a while, John distantly felt Sherlock nudge closer and press his mouth to his forehead.

“Not us,” he said into John’s skin. “Not us.”

 

\---

 

John dreamed of faraway deserts, of sandstorms and baking heat half a world away. He wandered a stark landscape of browned stone and soil, his trusty Sig a cold, dense weight in his left hand. Spindly trees, their branches warped into unnatural shapes, crowded in the distance.  

He spun and spotted Sherlock’s suited form. Even with his back to John, he looked healthy and splendidly human.

John rushed to him, overwhelmed with surprise and relief. Then Sherlock turned to greet him, head pivoting, and John saw two bleeding puncture wounds in his neck. Sherlock smiled at him, oblivious to his injury. “ _I was wondering when you’d come. We have work to do.”_

John paused as he watched twin red rivulets twist down the line of Sherlock’s neck, thickening as the bleeding increased. “ _Sherlock, I need to see to you. Stay still_.” He looked down, searching through the myriad camouflaged pouches of his uniform for his medical pack.

Patting every pocket, John couldn’t find it. How could he not find it? He was a medic; he always took plenty of supplies with him out on patrol. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John in irritation as the blood pooled in the gritty dirt around his feet, unnoticed. “ _Really, John, we must be going_ ,” he complained.

“ _Just hold on a moment_ ,” John said, growing frantic. He knelt in the ruddy dirt, removing his rucksack and spilling out the contents. There was nothing of use: bits of metal, frayed feathers and cracked shells, a hot water bottle-

The color was draining from Sherlock’s pallor. “ _You’re wasting your time, as usual_.”

_“I can fix you-“_

“ _Fix me?”_ Sherlock interrupted sharply, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “ _You can’t even fix yourself_.”

He pointed toward John’s feet.

The ground beneath his boots was soaked red with his own blood. John was bleeding out, uncontrollably, from neck and wrist and mouth – how had he not noticed?

Sherlock’s skin faded to sheer white, his eyes glowing a bright, icy blue. He was dead, and yet he wasn’t. The blood painting Sherlock was gone, his neck clean and pale.

“ _Your wound,”_ John said. _“It’s-“_

 _“Yours,”_ Sherlock replied, fangs protruding from his mouth. “ _Ours.”_

“ _I’m dying,”_ John realized. The red of his blood glistened sickeningly on his uniform. “ _I’m dying for the both of us_.”

Crystalline eyes grinned at him. “ _And here I thought you were slow.”_

 

\---

 

John jolted awake, left hand flying to his throat. He felt at his skin, searching all around for signs of bleeding. There was nothing but the dry, slightly oily texture of unbroken skin.

He lay on his side, blinking into the midnight darkness engulfing the bedroom. John noted the comforting texture of the blanket still wrapped around him, heavy and warm. The bed beneath him bore the acrid smell of various bodily fluids, grounding him back to reality.

He sighed in relief, exhaling a long breath.

“We were so close.”

The deep voice struck John like an anvil, unanticipated and overly loud against the silence of the room. John uncurled from his pillow, turning his head to glance behind him.

Sherlock stood at the single window, fully dressed in his suit and wearing his coat. Strange flickering lights from outside cascaded off his skin.

“What is it?” John asked the vampire, rising up. A tight constriction formed in his chest.

Sherlock’s eyes reflected pure gold as they swept toward the bed. “You said you’d be ready when it was time. That’s now, John. You’re going to have to trust me.”

“What’s that light? Who’s out there?”

Sherlock turned back to the window, the barest of smiles crossing his lips. “Mycroft refused them entry. The carriage house is burning.”

John gaped, blanket falling away from his bare chest and allowing the prickling chill of the room to envelop him.

“I’ve counted twenty-seven so far,” Sherlock continued with remarkable calm, eyes glued to the window. “Wilkes, Hurst, Stevens… and a dozen other notorious political rivals. There’s only one reason to bring so many. They’ve come for you. And for me, I expect.” His face stilled. “I don’t believe they mean to take you alive.”

Steeling himself, John glanced toward the glowing panes. “What’s the plan, then?”

Metal clacked against metal, and Sherlock lifted the long-forgotten pair of vampire handcuffs from his coat pocket. “We run, John.”


	11. Attrition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My unending gratitude goes to the fabulous [hedgehogandotter](http://hedgehogandotter.tumblr.com) for stepping in to beta the final chapters.

A massive fire engulfed the carriage house.

It roared as a bright, hypnotic beacon against the nighttime sky. Dark smoke churned above, speckled with still-glowing particles and rising to obscure the few visible stars. Tongues of flame crackled and snapped as they ate away at the support beams of the building. The dense wood blackened but did not break, exposed like charred bones between the disintegrating walls. A few blurry, back-lit figures stood watching the fire’s destructive work. The rest of the vampires had disappeared around the side of the manor not long ago, leaving these few to oversee the threatening display.

Crouching low, John peered out at the inferno between the oblong leaves of a rhododendron shrubbery. Fifty meters and a cloak of shadow were all that separated him from the men sent to kill him.

His military instincts nagged insistently about the vulnerability of his position. Firelight dappled his skin between the fronds, an over-bright glow starkly contrasted against the dark. If one of the vampires turned and caught a flash of color at just the wrong moment, or wandered down the gravel walk out of mere curiosity… John would be at their mercy within seconds. He’d seen Sherlock run. He knew how quickly they could move.

John tugged in the loose sides of his dressing gown, wrapping the thin fabric closer around his body and tucking his frigid hands under his arms. The garment belonged to Sherlock, as did his t-shirt, slippers, and the silver-bladed pen knife weighing down one pocket. A chilly gust of wind blew past, pervading the cloth and disturbing the ends of the sash. John clamped his arms tighter about himself and fought the urge to rock on his heels. It was deathly cold out here in the damp at half twelve in the morning, and John silently wished Sherlock were more inclined toward sensible jumpers than expensive, feather-weight robes.

The rope dangling next to him stirred in the dirt, prompting John to glance up the sheer stone face of the manor. He spotted Sherlock as he finally climbed out of the window two floors up. He’d lowered John down first in a great hurry, promising to follow once he’d sorted out the valuable data sitting vulnerable in his lab. He took his own bloody time in doing it, too, leaving John to hide in the bushes for the past fifteen minutes.

Sherlock descended smoothly and silently, coat barely rustling in the precision of his movements. John nervously eyed the gathered vampires, but they were too engrossed in the burning building to notice a person dangling from the window.

Sherlock landed on the soft-packed earth with a dull thud and quickly dropped into a matching crouch. John raised his brows, indicating his displeasure in how long Sherlock had kept him waiting. The vampire rolled his eyes and pointed off toward the darkness of the sprawling garden. He wanted John to follow.

Suddenly, a sharp crash echoed through the cold air. John whipped his head around in time to see splintered shards of glass land in a glittering spray on the lawn and gravel walk. A giant billow of flame chased after the debris, bursting forth from a window thirty feet away and burning ferociously in the night.

“They’re inside,” Sherlock muttered. “It won’t be long before they discover we’ve gone.”

John sat mesmerized by the climbing inferno. Black scorch marks quickly formed on the stone around the edges of the window frame. Another crash reverberated, but John couldn’t tell which room was under attack.

"Christ... the staff," he whispered with concern. They must be awake by now, surely?

A hand found his elbow in the dark, and John turned.

"Their safety now relies on the speed of our departure," Sherlock said. His irises were wide and brilliantly pale in the bright light. “Are you ready?”

John released the snug hold around his body, allowing his arm to slide free in Sherlock's grasp. He was already shivering; God, it was cold out here. "I’m not sure how far I'll make it," John admitted, raising a perfunctory eyebrow.

Sherlock felt at the rapid pulse fluttering through John's wrist. "One step at a time," he said quietly. "You've produced enough adrenaline to get you moving, at least." Sherlock laced their fingers tightly together. "Don't let go."

John nodded. “I won’t.”

They were out of their hiding spot in seconds and dashing straight for the dark expanse of foliage. Gravel crunched sharply under John’s feet, shifting and sliding apart. His leg muscles, spent and aching, screamed for respite and shuddered precariously under his weight, but the adrenaline held. Sherlock pulled him along as they crossed over the open grass separating the house from the rest of the garden.

The safety of the underbrush loomed only ten feet ahead when an alarmed shout rang out behind them. John pivoted his head to look back at the clustered figures of the vampires, but Sherlock jerked him into a near-sprint as wild growth swallowed them up.

They flew through the plants at break-neck speed, damp leaves whipping past John’s face as Sherlock guided him through the trail. At least, he assumed Sherlock was following some sort of trail; beyond the line of the vampire's shoulders nothing was visible but wet, chilly darkness. John raised his free arm to block the woody stalks and branches from blindly spearing him. They dodged and weaved, John tripping up here and there but always kept on balance by Sherlock’s unforgiving hand.

It wasn’t long before his whole body burned in agonized protest. Limbs numbing, head spinning, heart thundering, John sensed the impending failure of his body. The hand clutching Sherlock gave way, slipping into a loose half-hold. Sherlock gripped tighter, trying to keep John with him, but their contact broke. Support gone, John dropped hard and fast. His knees broke his forward momentum as he crashed to the soggy ground, the rest of his body following suit. 

Pain clawed through his chest and into his head. Huffing hard, fingers sinking into gritty earth, John struggled to push himself up. Strong arms intervened, gripping him under the armpits and raising him to his knees. Sherlock urgently tugged at him in a plea to stand upright. "Come _on_ , John!"

“Sherlock- I can’t,” John managed between gasps, wincing. “I can’t- can't run."

Sherlock glanced around while John caught his breath, expression wary as he studied their surroundings. His fingers tightened anxiously around John's biceps to hold him steady. A secluded canopy of trees spread above and around them, providing what John hoped would be sufficient camouflage.

“You’ll be fine," Sherlock said, looking down at him. "We must keep going-”

“Jesus, _listen_ to me,” John hissed at the vampire, trying to keep his voice low. “I can’t. Not tonight, not in my state. _Shit_." He shrugged off Sherlock's grip. "They’re sure to catch us before we reach a road.”

“We’re not trying to find a road."

“Then where are we headed?”

Sherlock pointed. Through a break in the leaves, John saw the tops of the hedgerows. It was difficult to discern the structure in the distance, but he recognized the dark shape as Mummy Holmes’s mausoleum.

“Can you make it there?” Sherlock asked.

John swallowed as his breathing evened out. “I don’t know, but I’ll damn well try.”

 

\---

 

Sherlock helped him up onto wobbly legs, insinuating his arm into the crook of John’s elbow and snaring him tight in case of an unexpected fall. "They'll be searching for us," he warned in a low voice as John took a few experimental steps.

"I've been trained in evasion tactics," John replied, keeping his voice equally soft.

"It won't help. They've got a blood sample," Sherlock said. “They’ll use a phylactery.”

"A what?"

"A vial of your blood. With the proper spells it can be used as a detection device. It grows warmer as it nears the source of its origin. We must reach our destination before they hone in on you."

John brought out the silver knife from his pocket, snapping the blade open with the flick of his wrist. "Let's move, then."

They emerged from the bushy leaves slowly, cautiously. Sherlock stopped to listen several times, perking his head this way and that with a frown of concentration. John clung to him, convinced that he heard occasional voices ringing out over the night air, masked against the distant rumbling of fire. Wind stirred the leaves around them, bearing the loamy scent of damp earth and rotting foliage in desperate need of a gardener's attention.

John's instincts prodded him yet again, an itch to evade. _Move, move, move_. The longer they remained in one spot, the greater chance they would be found.

The impatience grew to be too much. “Sher-” John started, barely a whisper, before Sherlock raised his hand for silence.

The vampire tilted his head after a moment and peered at John through the dim light. “This way,” he murmured.

A broad pathway separated them from the hedgerows. John glanced down the dark path as they crossed. Anyone could be haunting the dark trespasses in between; hiding, watching, waiting. A sense of exposure tingled up his spine, eyes and ears fixated on every rustle and sway of the plants. As they passed into the hedges, the ambient nighttime sounds muffled down. John felt cut off and yet more vulnerable.

Sherlock confidently led him through the twists and turns of the hedgerows. John had never bothered to ask whether the hedges formed an actual maze, but in the dark it very much appeared that way. Several times, Sherlock stopped and pressed them against the thick hedges for a minute or two of silent observation. Phantom figures seemed to flit in and out of the corners of John’s eyesight, always disappearing before he could properly distinguish between shadows and living beings. The uneasiness gathered in the pit of his stomach grew steadily.

After half a dozen stops, Sherlock's back abruptly stiffened. He subtly pointed to his eyes and then out toward their surroundings with three fingers. _We're not alone. At least three_. 

John squeezed the handle of his knife, feeling the smooth contours press into his palm, and nodded to indicate his understanding. He consciously drew a long, slow breath in hopes of calming his tensing muscles.

The high rows of impenetrable plants loomed forebodingly as they continued on. Now on high alert, Sherlock adopted a guarded pace, balancing speed against caution and John's limitations.

Sherlock slowed considerably as they approached a broad black gap in the hedges. Holding out a hand in warning, he gracefully crept toward the corner and peeked around the opening. Sherlock spent a moment in consideration, then squeezed John's hand briefly and, deciding it was safe, edged inside. As he followed, John spotted light-colored blobs floating in the gloom ahead.

Flower blossoms. They were crossing into the open-air rose garden at the center of the hedges.

Sherlock had barely taken five steps when a massive shadow suddenly slammed into him from the side. The impact wrenched his hand away from John and sent him sprawling to the ground with a shout.

The compulsion to react engaged like a muscle memory. John unthinkingly leapt forward to intervene, rushing toward the wriggling figures on the ground.

Before he could reach them, a powerful blow made contact with the back of his shoulders. John propelled forward, the knife flying free, as an iron grip locked down on his right wrist. The hold arrested his fall, jerking him hard and preventing a face-first landing in the wet grass.

A heavy foot bore down at the center of John’s back, forcing him into a cowed position on the ground. His right hand was caught high above his head, and John craned his neck around to see the smiling face of a smartly-dressed vampire. A glinting gold chain with a small, shiny bauble on the end dangled from his waistcoat. Two others stood near, and the last was successfully wrestling Sherlock around to face them.

"Get the fuck _off_ me," John spat.

"Musgrave, would you be so kind as to report our successful apprehension of the Immune?" said the vampire crushing John's wrist. One of the men nodded and disappeared into the hedgerows. John’s captor glanced down at him with displeasure. "We demand silence from humans in our presence. You would do well to learn."

"Fuck off!"

"Jones?"

The vampire restraining Sherlock delivered a wicked punch to his temple, the force of his fist whipping Sherlock's curly-haired head aside with an accompanying crack of bone. Sherlock grunted harshly with the impact, wincing, then slowly turned back to face them. A streak of blood decorated his brow.

Bony fingers dug into John’s wrist, pressing at his pulse. The man holding onto him sneered. "He's to be imprisoned, not killed, but you'd be surprised at the severity of injuries a vampire can survive. Silence, or we find out firsthand."

John closed his mouth, shooting the man a vengeful glare.

"Pardon my manners, Sherlock, but you know how unruly humans can be,” he said with a mockingly formal cadence. “How pleasant to see you again."

"Rucastle," Sherlock greeted darkly.

Sherlock was more than skilled enough to overpower a single opponent. He showed no sign of intending to escape, though, as he flexed his hands and studied the situation with a critical eye. _Run, you idiot!_ John silently begged, even though he knew it was futile. Both, or none. Sherlock wouldn't abandon him.

The other remaining vampire scrounged around in the grass for a moment, picking up John's fallen knife and handing it over to Rucastle.

"Silver knife?" Rucastle mused. "How quaint."

He pressed down with his foot and levered John's arm up higher, rotating the shoulder joint in its socket until John felt sure it would snap from the tension. He gasped in pain, the sleeve of the dressing gown falling in a bunch around his elbow. Wet grass stains soaked through his pyjamas, chilling him.

"My, he's a sickly one," the vampire said as he examined John, his expression conveying pure repugnance. There was a metallic snap of the collapsible knife expanding. John fought ineffectually against the hand gripping him, but the vampire’s inherent strength was too great to overcome.

"Now, now," Rucastle soothed, as if to a spooked animal. "Let's have a look at what all the fuss is about."

The sharp sensation of the blade lit a fiery trail up John's inner arm. He barely stifled the cry that rose in his throat, choking it into a low groan as spreading warmth began seeping over his skin. The vampire leaned in to sniff the blood. Almost immediately, he snorted in revulsion and cringed. "Ugh. Disgusting. I've smelt latrines more appetizing. Adair, you want some of this?"

The other vampire shifted uncomfortably where he stood and frowned. "I'll pass on it, thanks."

Rucastle glanced over to Sherlock, who was clenching his jaw and glaring daggers. "You like his rubbish blood, do you?" He rotated John’s wrist, as if to provide Sherlock with a clearer view of the weeping wound. Blood collected on his fingers and palm, smearing his ashy skin. Rucastle flicked a few droplets toward the roses, spattering the delicate petals with flecks of dark red. "Perhaps I'll spill it over those pretty flowers. Watch you grovel for mercy while you lick it up. Would you like that? One last taste of him?"

"I'll see yours shed, first," Sherlock replied, a dangerous cast to his voice. His eyes locked meaningfully upon John. "That, I promise."

"Cocky bastard," Rucastle said with a chuckle. "It's over, Sherlock. I imagine the council will punish you further for this imprudent flight."

"Like so many, you see but you do not observe,” Sherlock taunted. He smirked, looking positively frightening for a brief moment. “Do you really believe I would choose just any human?"

Wrist slippery with blood, John twisted it sharply in the vampire’s grasp. The unanticipated movement succeeded in throwing Rucastle off balance and toppling him backwards, forcing him to drop the knife and allowing John to snatch it up. He lunged with what little strength he had left, inordinately grateful when the silver blade met thin fabric and soft muscle. Rucastle screamed as the deadly metal lodged in his leg, swiftly collapsing to the ground.

John slumped down with him, his shoulder slamming into the wet grass and his wrist flaring with intense pain. He managed to jerk the knife sideways, snapping off the thin blade and leaving a large section embedded in Rucastle. John rolled out of reach of the flailing vampire, breathing hard and nearly exhausted.

The distraction was all that Sherlock needed to overpower the vampire holding him. By the time John looked over he had wrestled the man to the ground, delivering few well-aimed strikes to the face that left him limp.

But then Adair was launching toward him. "Sherlock!" John called from where he lay in the wet grass.

Sherlock caught the warning in time, elegantly grabbing the vampire as he plowed toward him. He locked a wiry arm around Adair’s neck and used his own momentum against him, flipping him smoothly onto the torn up ground. Adair scrambled back, eyes darting toward Jones, unconscious, and Rucastle, feebly clutching at blade impaled in the meat of his thigh. Sherlock adopted a defensive posture, threatening him with a similar fate.

Adair shrank back hesitantly, edging toward the hedges before finally turning to run away at top speed.

"I'll see you executed, Sherlock!" called Rucastle between his gurgles of pain. The muscles of his face contorted in agony from the allergic reaction festering in his leg. "I'll see you on the headsman's block!"

Sherlock wandered toward the injured vampire. He reached down and broke the phylactery off its chain with one sharp movement. "Shut it. A flesh wound is less than you deserve. I'll have John aim for the heart, next time," Sherlock replied, pocketing the detection device. "Idiot."

John lifted his cheek out of the damp grass as Sherlock’s footfalls drew closer. A hand pushed at him, turning him over to sprawl on his back. Sherlock, his eyebrow bloodied, leaned in and visually raked him over for information.

His wrist and forearm pounded in red-hot agony. John coughed thickly. "Are you all right?" he asked with difficulty, glancing at the blood and bruising on Sherlock's brow.

“I'm fine,” Sherlock replied delicately, eyes trailing downward. "Not so sure about you."

A dark patch of blood was quickly spreading on the inside of John's sleeve. A few violent shivers shook through him, and Sherlock's face darkened with concern. "We have to move.”

Moving sounded nearly impossible. John settled his head against the wet grass, exhaustion overcoming him. "I just... need to rest a moment," he heard himself saying. "Just a moment, Sherlock. Then we… then we can go."

The vampire shook his head emphatically. "I'm taking you away from here. Now."

As good as his word, Sherlock soon had John standing. The vampire slung John’s left arm over his shoulders, the textured fabric of Sherlock's coat grazing under his fingertips. A supportive arm wove around his back and under his injured extremity. With effort, they took a few hobbling, tentative steps together.

"He's as good as dead, Sherlock!" Rucastle growled sadistically from afar as they trudged away. "We'll run you down as easily as a wounded deer!"  

“Give my regards to the others,” Sherlock answered, sarcastic and superior, but he held John tighter all the same.

 

\---

 

Sherlock forced him into the darkness of the hedgerows. They moved at a worrisome pace, John barely managing to stumble along even with Sherlock's help. Fear of their pursuers, so evident in Sherlock's continuous urgent prodding, was quickly losing its immediacy in John's shaken state. He fought to keep alert, but all he could think about was the need to sit and rest and tend to his injuries.

His arm pulsed painfully from the trauma. The nerve endings sparked white hot and nearly numb in places, blood from the open wound leaking down his skin to well in the concave of his palm. It dripped freely from his leaden fingertips; they were leaving a trail.

“Sherlock,” he murmured as they walked, watching another fat droplet disappear into the dark, matted grass. “The blood…"

“Quiet, John," Sherlock hushed. His eyes were up and focused uneasily upon their surroundings.

John lifted his bloody hand, pain increasing as gravity pulled at his damaged wrist. "They'll smell me," he said, voice wracked with strain.

Sherlock didn't reply as he studied it, but he shifted John's weight a bit and adopted a faster gait.

At last, they emerged on the other side of the hedgerows. Out beyond a dusky expanse of trees and bushes, the unmistakable facade of the mausoleum rose like a silent monolith. Sherlock glanced around uncertainly, evaluating the dangers that separated them from their goal.

"Almost there," John huffed, aiming for optimism and falling dismally short.

Coarse shouting erupted distantly behind them.

"They found Rucastle," Sherlock noted in aggravation. He watched John, spending a moment in thoughtful consideration before pressing his mouth into a thin line. His fingers flexed impatiently against John's ribs. "To hell with this," he muttered.

Sherlock turned and slid his hands into comfortable holds on either side of John's waist, underneath the dressing gown. Before John knew what was happening, Sherlock lifted him up and hoisted him over his shoulder. John barely had a chance to register his own surprise before the vampire took off running.

Sherlock bounded through the garden's overgrown embankments. A fresh column of pain rocketed up John's arm as Sherlock's jostling form repeatedly knocked against it. John struggled to suppress the shouts threatening to erupt from his chest, gritting his teeth and pressing his mouth to Sherlock's collar to remain quiet.

Swift and silent despite the added burden of John's weight over his shoulder, Sherlock skidded through damp patches of muddy grass and dodged low-hanging branches at every turn. Rustling foliage brushing past them as they travelled, a sound soon accompanied by Sherlock's winded breathing. It was an unsettling reminder that Sherlock was very far from his usual strength.

Finally, they slowed in the wake of a gigantic shadow.

The body supporting him contorted, and a tense impact shuddered through the bone and muscle. A grinding creak of metal followed as heavy hinges broke free of long-drawn dormancy. Sherlock swept through the parted doorway, the ground beneath his feet changing from packed earth to smooth, interlocking stones. The blood dripping from John’s hand splattered onto the floor and contrasted noticeably against the muted grey-brown.

As soon as they crossed the threshold, the hands gripping John’s waist and the back of his thighs quickly adjusted downward. Sherlock unceremoniously tipped over, half-heartedly supporting John as he dumped him onto the ground. Despite the vampire’s hold, John’s shoulder blades hit the stone with enough force to knock the wind out of his lungs. Pain soared up his arm as it roughly landed, bringing his eyes to water.

In an instant, Sherlock was back at the doors, pushing them closed. He removed the handcuffs from his pocket and snagged the two open loops around the door handles. John lay on his back and watched, struggling to breathe normally against the mosaic of dusty stonework, as Sherlock ratcheted the metal until it drew taut. Once the mechanism stopped clicking, he tugged vigorously at the handcuffs a few times to test their strength. When they didn't budge, Sherlock backed a few steps away from the doors, but his shoulders remained tense.

"Will that hold them?" John grunted out.

"For a time," Sherlock replied, studying the locked cuffs. "Ironically, the weakest part of this entire structure is the lock. Mummy intended the doors never be shut, but Mycroft had the locks put in to keep out vandals and vagabonds. I’ve spent a great deal of time imbuing spells into the metal of these handcuffs, but they’ll break with enough effort."

Satisfied, Sherlock turned and looked at the blood-soaked sleeve of John’s dressing gown. Expression shifting to consternation, he drew closer and knelt down next to John. His coat was smeared with blood in places, dark wet spots that were no doubt ruining the beautiful material.

Sherlock spared no thought for his beloved coat, though, and instead picked up John’s mangled arm to examine the damage. He gripped far too close to the wrist joint. John hissed in pain and tried to draw it back.

" _Augh_ \- gently!" he said, grimacing and contracting his shoulders.

Sherlock changed his hold, avoiding the injured joint. "I need to look at it, John.”

"It's either a bad sprain or a fracture, and it would help if you controlled that damned curiosity-"

“Stop complaining. You were shot once, for God’s sake."

John dropped his head back against the hard flooring, a woozy feeling from pain and blood loss washing through him. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t evading homicidal vampires at the time, was I? That’s got to count for something.”

The barest hint of an affectionate smirk crossed Sherlock’s lips, but it quickly tamped down into a brooding scowl. Taking greater caution, he carefully examined John’s arm.

The blood coating his right hand and wrist was already caking into itchy, rust-colored streaks. It wasn’t an unfamiliar sight, though in Afghanistan the dried blood on his hands didn’t usually belong to him.

The freshest stuff suffused his clothing in blooming swaths, shining unpleasantly in the low light. Sherlock rolled the sleeve back to John's elbow, exposing the nasty slice all the way up his forearm. The air stung the open wound, and John sucked in a steadying breath as Sherlock ran his pale fingers along the inflamed borders.

"It's deep," Sherlock observed.

John smiled weakly. "Must've missed the major veins and arteries, then, or I'd be dead already."

“You’re still losing blood.” The vampire looked up searchingly. "I’ll need to close it."

"Fine. Just- _ah_ \- be careful..."

Sherlock shifted around until John's elbow rested on his lap. He raised the arm with care, but John couldn’t help but growl a bit under his breath from the discomfort. Sherlock gingerly pressed his mouth to the edge of the cut nearest John’s elbow. He employed his tongue, spreading saliva that would quickly clot his blood and encourage the flesh to knit back together. Waves of pain spread through his arm as Sherlock worked his way up the skin, cautious and engrossed.

When he reached John's wrist he tried for a gentler hold, but the pain pulsed severe and uncomfortable with every press. John draped his other arm over his eyes, biting back a scream.

Next he knew, a hand was carding through his hair, up behind his ear. He let his left arm flop down off his face and found Sherlock gazing at him, his injured arm rested against Sherlock’s legs. The skin previously torn from the knife wound now sported a reddish line of healing in the midst of the leftover blood.

“Thank you,” John said tiredly.

Sherlock dragged his hand down the side of John's neck. “Try not to lose any more, all right?” he replied with a brief smile. As his mouth parted, John noticed his fangs had descended.

John furrowed his brow. "Um, Sherlock-"

"Yes, I know,” the vampire interrupted, waving one hand dismissively. “I can't help it. Nothing to worry about."

Sherlock shifted, moving his arms toward John’s legs and back as if he intended to scoop him up.

“I can walk, I think,” John said. “If you’ll help me.”

Sherlock looked skeptical, but he aided John in rising from the ground, once again taking John’s uninjured left arm over his shoulder and looping his right around John’s back. The turned together, and awe stole the breath from John’s lungs.

From the outside, he had imagined the mausoleum to be an enclosed tomb. It was nothing like that at all.

The high marble exterior proved to be more of an encircling wall than a solid structure. Above them, the framed night sky included the over-large moon and twinkling stars, providing enough light to comfortably see by. Shadowy columns and carved classical arches lined the interior face, interspersed with niches containing lifelike statues all looking in upon a central courtyard. There was actual _grass_ in the middle – a manicured plot inside a circumference of stone walkway that served to augment the grand, central focal point of the space.

There in the middle, a massive, intricately sculpted marble box lay reverently upon a raised plinth. As he took in the glinting gold inlay, the only descriptive word that came to John's mind was _sarcophagus_. “Is that-?”

Sherlock coldly eyed the tomb. “Mummy.”

They moved across the soft grass toward a nearby statue. John settled against the foot of it, glancing up at the looming figure to note the fanned wings and triumphant pose. An angel.

Sherlock drifted away, evaporating into the dark. Several scraping sounds reverberated around the courtyard, and then a torch flared to life in one corner. Sherlock's face was illuminated eerily beside it. He began setting alight more torches and placing them in sconces along the archways.

The light ruined John's night vision, but it allowed him to examine his injuries. He inched back his right sleeve, noting his clothing to be significantly dirtier than first suspected, covered as it was in a grimy mixture of blood, dirt, and grass stains. The skin of his wrist was warm to the touch and sensitive. There was no telltale deformity that would indicate a break of the radius bone, so he clenched his teeth and tried flexing the joint. An excruciating pain stabbed inside, but the joint barely moved. Torn ligaments, perhaps, or a fracture of the metacarpals. It would be impossible to tell without an x-ray.

Sherlock finished his loop around the perimeter walls, having left more than twenty lit torches in his wake. "So we wait for sunrise?" John called out, struggling to keep the residual pain from infusing his voice.

"The sun wouldn't stop them even if we lasted that long," Sherlock answered, returning to John with his last torch. Upon reaching the angel statue, he rammed the shaft into a soft plot of grass to provide steady light, then sat at John's left side. "Once they realize we've entered the mausoleum, we'll have perhaps an hour before they manage to break through the door."

Eyes drifting to the handcuffs barring the entryway, John sighed and rested his head back against the angel's cold, stony robes. “You planned all this ages ago, didn't you? Asking Lestrade for the cuffs...”

“I had hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. This is the securest location on the grounds, now that I’ve bolstered the lock.” He glanced sideways at John. “Our last stand.”

John frowned. "You wouldn’t bring us to a dead end without a reason.”

“That’s assuming the reason finds _us_ ,” Sherlock muttered, barely loud enough for John to catch.

Sherlock's protruding canines caught the torchlight as he glared into the dark areas around them. John anxiously clutched at his dressing gown with his good hand. “Sherlock, why haven't your fangs retracted yet?" he asked uneasily.

The vampire shrugged far too impassively. "I got a taste of your blood. From the cut,” he said, sounding distracted and not at all convincing.

"They shouldn't be down for this long if that's all it was.”

Sherlock turned his head and settled his gaze upon John. Despite being on a level with one another, the angle felt decidedly predatory. "It’s nothing."

But John recognized that look. He'd seen it often enough, in recent weeks. "Anticipation,” he realized as a low wave of apprehension struck him. “You’re excited.”

That’s precisely what it was. Sherlock expected to feed very soon, a stimulating prospect that prevented him from containing his physiological reaction. It didn't make any sense; he should be sated. After a too-rich diet for weeks on end, he shouldn’t want any blood at all.

But there it was, staring John in the face. Sherlock’s eyes gleamed bright with alertness. "John-"

At that moment, a grinding noise interrupted whatever excuse Sherlock was attempting to deliver. John tensed, unsure where the sound originated from, but Sherlock stood with casual grace and clasped his arms behind his back.

Across the courtyard, Mycroft appeared from one of the darkened archways. He stepped into the light carrying a large, familiar bag: the one Esther had been lugging about when John first met her. Suit singed and torn, the elder vampire trudged across the grass with a stern look upon his face.

“Where’s Esther?" Sherlock demanded sharply, approaching his brother. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see Mycroft here, of all places, while his manor was under assault. "You were supposed to bring her!"

“Esther has been detained by parties disinclined to negotiate for her release." Mycroft said flatly. He dropped the bag with a muffled thud. “I, myself, barely had time to escape into the tunnel entrance in the study. I doubt she will be harmed, but she will not be joining us.”

Sherlock glanced critically at the bag. "The tunnel's collapsed, then? You’ve not been followed?"

"It'll be a nightmare to rebuild, but yes. As agreed." Mycroft peered over Sherlock’s shoulder toward where John rested. “I trust you had no difficulties-”

He grew abruptly silent when he saw the extensive bloodstains on John’s clothing. Mycroft sniffed disdainfully, eyes dropping to linger on the items he wore that obviously belonged to Sherlock. A moderate blush warmed John’s face. Mycroft needn’t be a genius to deduce why he was dressed in his brother’s clothes.

“You assured me you could get him here in one piece,” Mycroft snapped in a quiet, accusatory tone to Sherlock.

“He _is_ in one piece.” Sherlock paused. “More or less.”

“If you expect me to-“

“-he’s perfectly _fine_ , Mycroft-“

“-if you managed to act responsibly for once in your life-“

“I’m suffering from blood loss, not hearing loss,” John called wearily. “Bloody vampires.”

Mycroft pushed Sherlock aside. “My apologies, John, but I had known Sherlock intended to so blatantly expose you to harm-”

“He saved my life,” John retorted, his anger gathering. “He’s made a few poor choices along the way, I grant you, but I’ll not hear you dismiss his efforts. He has voluntarily sacrificed his health for my benefit.”

“By endangering you, he risks you both,” Mycroft chastised, shaking his head. "This plan borders on insanity."

John glanced between them. “What plan is that, then?”

Sherlock turned to look at him. God, he was growing paler by the minute. "We must bind, John. Right now, as soon as possible.”

For a long moment, John simply stared at him. He couldn’t be serious, could he? “And how are we supposed to do that? The prepared room is back in the manor, Sherlock!”

With a dramatic flourishing motion, Sherlock shed his coat. He laid it out on the patch of grass in front of his sire’s tomb, then raised his eyebrows at John.

“Here? You’ve got to be kidding,” John moaned. It was ludicrous to even consider trying to bind. It wasn't time. It was nowhere near time; two days too early. Esther's warning about the risks rang fresh in his head. It felt like he'd heard it ages ago. Was this really the same night?

“We may not get another opportunity, John," Sherlock explained carefully. “Waiting them out is futile. Eventually, they'll get in, and going by their numbers it's likely they possess the authority to execute you on this very spot. If we are bound, you will come fully under my lawful possession and I will share in your sentence. But killing others of our kind is a terrible offense; no vampire can be executed without the council's direct assent. If they take action against either of us here tonight, it will be an act of sedition."

"Would that really stop them?" John asked.

Mycroft nodded somberly. "Their fear of openly antagonizing the council may be our only advantage."

Sherlock had this all planned. He knew exactly where he was taking John and why, right from the beginning. The handcuffs he acquired from Lestrade, the supply bag that Mycroft must have stored away in case the worst should happen, preemptively and intentionally exciting himself in preparation to feed. Even now, he was staring at John's throat with open hunger.

John shook his head in utter disbelief. “This… this is like asking a woman to give birth in a back alley, Sherlock. Medieval. We need support. We need people who can help us if this goes wrong, for God’s sake!”

Sherlock glanced at his brother. “We’ve got Mycroft. He'll have to be enough.”

"I assure you, I've watched Esther with meticulous care," Mycroft added. "I wasn't half bad at spellcraft, once upon a time."

John cradled his injured arm. "Christ," he muttered. Was he up for it? A giant, resounding 'No' was his instinctive response, but Sherlock was right. They couldn't outrun or outfight their pursuers. There was no other choice.

The vampires took his lack of continued argument as acceptance. Sherlock started rummaging through the bag Mycroft had supplied, pulling out bottles and containers until he found a spray-paint canister.

"You remember them all?" Mycroft asked as Sherlock moved toward the marble walls.

"Of course. I'm not _blind_ ," Sherlock called back irritably.

Mycroft sighed and started arranging the assorted paraphernalia contained in the leather bag. Soon he had a makeshift stovetop, boiling a glass of green-tinged water as he messed about with the smaller containers of herbs. Two metal-lined insulated flasks stood separated, placed among different sets of ingredients. 

"I can add an analgesic for that," Mycroft offered, indicating John's bloody arm.

"Much appreciated," John sighed.

Crudely-formed yellow shapes were emerging around the courtyard as Sherlock worked the spray paint. The lines connected in seemingly random patterns, but as John thought back to the scrawled mess on their bedroom walls he supposed a few appeared somewhat familiar.

A sudden slamming against the doors interrupted the hiss of the spray can. Muffled shouting and knocking followed, a chorus of men’s voices assaulting the wood. Mycroft and Sherlock ignored it, continuing their work, though John's eyes could hardly leave the rattling doors. The handcuffs strained as pressure was applied from the outside, but they did not break, and soon the noises died away.

"They'll be back, and with something far more effective than fists," Mycroft said pointedly as he poured the acrid-smelling water into both flasks.

"Will we finish in time?" John asked.

"That depends on you two, I'm afraid," he replied, scattering in a wad of pre-chopped leaves. "Though it wouldn't hurt to hope for some incompetency on their part, all the same."

John cringed a bit at the strong smell wafting from the herbaceous water. "Ugh. What's in there?"

"Myrrh, cypress root, knotweed, wormwood, and yucca, among other reagents. Don't worry, this one isn't yours."

True enough, when Sherlock returned from his painting Mycroft poured out a dosage into the flask’s wide-rimmed lid and handed it to him. "This will speed the alchemical process," Mycroft explained for John’s benefit. "He'll need to shorten the transmutation period as much as possible."

Sherlock tentatively sniffed at it. "Your dittany was harvested prematurely," he mulled, peevish, but he knocked it back anyway in one quick gulp. He crinkled his nose after swallowing it and tossed the empty lid into the grass.

Then Mycroft passed John what seemed to him an equally foul-smelling concoction from the second flask. "This will reinforce blood flow throughout your body and sustain consciousness. As long as your brain receives a steady supply of oxygen, there should be no irreversible damage."

John tightened his hold around the lid. "You're saying I won't die?"

"Not necessarily," Mycroft warned, "but you'll remain alive for far longer than any human could manage unaided."

"How reassuring."

John’s remedy went down pungent and sour with a thick, slimy texture reminiscent of over-cooked spinach. He almost gagged on it, toward the end, but managed to drain the last congealed dregs. 

The sense of dread didn't set in until Sherlock helped him over to the splayed coat on the ground. As John lowered down into a seated position on the fabric, legs outstretched, gingerly avoiding hitting his right wrist on anything, he abruptly realized that this could very well be the last thing he ever experienced. A bloody, chilly night, barricaded in the pretentious mausoleum of a long-dead woman he instinctively knew he disliked, subjected to spells and potions he barely understood, all to satisfy an unsympathetic group of vampires who had no justifiable jurisdiction over him in the first place.

John glanced up at Sherlock, busily rolling back his shirtsleeves as he stood above in the flickering torchlight, and felt the creeping grip of fear building inside him. What the hell were they thinking? He desperately wondered if there could have been a better way, a plan that wasn't so blatantly dangerous. If only they had more time...

He finally noticed the vampire staring straight back at him, Sherlock’s eyes analyzing his increasing respiration rate and the nervous tells betraying his panic. Perhaps he could even smell it on him. Sherlock folded down onto his knees, settling into a straddle on John’s lap without the least embarrassment of doing so in full view of his brother.

His weight was comforting and steady, but John's gaze locked immediately upon the fangs in Sherlock's mouth, razor-edged and fully descended. John tried to regulate his breathing, heart pounding to the point of aching. There were so many ways this could go so very, very wrong. Responsibility pressed heavy upon him, almost crushingly unbearable. If he was the one to falter he would be taking Sherlock's life along with him.

Sherlock, unusually quiet, seemed to sense his growing unrest. He spread his palms flat against John’s chest underneath the thin layer of the dressing gown, pressing reassuringly for a moment before sliding them up John’s pectorals. Slowly, he eased the fabric off John’s shoulders, exposing him to the chill of the night. John swallowed, then cleared his throat, and swallowed again. A hundred nightmare scenarios danced across his mind, cold and final as the grave behind them.

A hand settled just below John's right ear, nudging at his jaw line until he lifted his head higher. Sherlock’s pale sight scrutinized him closely.

"A moment?" Sherlock asked, eyes darting over to Mycroft.

His brother, in the midst of pulling out more alchemical supplies from his bag, stood and tilted his head in quiet acquiescence. “Make it quick,” he said, before stepping away to examine their sire's tomb.

"John?" Sherlock asked with uncommon tenderness, fingers tapering down his neck.

John blinked quickly. "Sorry," he said, shaking off his stupor. "Sorry. I'm- I'll be fine."

He gathered John's left hand between his own. “I can tell what you’re thinking. I always can, with you." Sherlock looked down at their joined fingers, squeezing lightly, before glancing up once more. "But I would have your explicit permission, John. It's not- not required, but I'd prefer to have it, all the same.”

The tension in his chest loosened, bit by bit. "Permission to feed from me? You've already got it," John replied, unsure.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, not for the feeding."

"What is it, then?"

The vampire hesitated a moment. “I had no choice in my fate. I'm offering one last opportunity for you to decide yours. I wish to bind you to me, John. I've never met anyone I wanted more. But I won't do it if you're not entirely willing, even now." An air of immense gravity settled over him. "I will alter you. I will change your life in the most fundamental ways imaginable. You won't be the same, when I'm done."

John couldn't suppress the smile burgeoning on his lips. "But you've already changed me," he said, warmth welling his voice. "I sometimes think of who I was before we met; the emptiness I felt and loss of purpose after I came home.” He pulled Sherlock closer with his good hand, until their foreheads came together. “I no longer recognize that man. I never wish to see him again. You have my permission to bind me, Sherlock."

An odd shudder passed through Sherlock’s body, but John was already kissing him carefully, the fangs a protruding presence against his mouth. He let it linger, taking strength from Sherlock's scent and feel, cementing a fresh memory to hold onto if these were to be his last moments.

When they parted, a sad sort of determination lit Sherlock's eyes. “You are not allowed to leave me, John Watson," he whispered, voice threatening to break. "Not under any circumstance.”

John dared to smirk, soft and fond. "How could I, when you’ve asked so very nicely?”

Sherlock dropped his gaze, releasing a defeated sigh. "Look at me. Entirely compromised," he said despondently.

"I think, just this once, it may be all right," John suggested quietly. "I promise not to tell anyone."

A hint of a grin pulled at the corners of Sherlock's mouth, the tips of his fangs peeking out, and John supposed he wouldn’t trade the way Sherlock was looking at him for anything in the world.

"We're ready," Sherlock called aloud.


	12. Resolve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due thanks are owed to my fantastic beta hedgehogandotter. Without her encouragement, this chapter would be even more late than it already is...

Hearing his brother's call, Mycroft appeared back at their sides with remarkable speed. Their dallying earned a look of impatience as he bee-lined toward his bag to resume rifling through its contents. Sherlock patently ignored his brother’s displeasure and offered a few idle recommendations as Mycroft collected up various items.

Whatever mild painkiller Mycroft had added to John’s remedy was thankfully starting to work; the edge of pain was ebbing from his right arm and allowed John to concentrate on oxygenating his blood. Long, controlled breaths gusted in and out of his lungs as the fingers of his left hand massaged a soothing pattern into the gathered waistline of Sherlock's shirt.

“It's absolutely imperative that you do not stop or hesitate," Mycroft advised Sherlock when he at last came over for the final preparations. He placed a few stoppered flat-bottomed vials on the ground next to him and kept a tight hold on a stack of handwritten notes. "Every moment you pause is one you cannot afford to lose. No matter what happens, you must continue."

"Obviously," Sherlock answered, looping an arm easily around John's lower back. He adjusted himself over John's legs and rested his thumb on the pulse point in John's neck where he normally bit.

John wriggled slightly, trying to find a comfortable position in Sherlock’s snug grasp. "Should I lie down?"

"It's easier for me if you're upright as long as possible," Sherlock answered. “I can feed more quickly this way.”

Reticence wormed deep into John’s chest. “What’s going to happen, exactly?” he asked.

“I drink your blood, transmute it, and give it back. Then I bind you.”

“It sounds easy, when you say it like that,” John replied, rolling his eyes. He consciously held tighter to Sherlock’s waist. “Just pace yourself, all right? As much as you need.”

“I will do no such thing,” Sherlock retorted softly. His gaze lowered to John’s throat.

Mycroft rested a hand on each of their shoulders and initiated a round of quiet murmuring incantations. John glanced at him warily and attempted to discern what he was saying, but the language was definitely not English. Sherlock kept his eyes on John's neck, frowning ever so slightly as he contemplated.

The words ended and Mycroft backed away from them both. He nodded supportively. "Whenever you are ready, Sherlock. I’ve done what I can.”

Sherlock didn't make any movement to bite. Pinpoint pupils met John’s gaze, framed by a bloodless complexion. He observed John freely, drinking him in with steady, pale eyes that gave away nothing. John blinked back and anxiously waited for a rapid and unsentimental initiation of the process. His skin prickled under the tension.

What in the world was he waiting for? John flexed the fingers resting against Sherlock's shirt, grasping at him lightly. He maintained eye contact and silently continued wondering.

Then he realized what it was.

Expression softening, John smiled. Sherlock tilted his head slightly. "Go on, then," John told him in a low whisper. "No matter what happens, this is what I want."

Reassured, Sherlock bared his elongated canines with frightening intensity, the enamel sharp and glistening. A rare and disquieting look of guilt crossed his face before he finally lunged inward toward John's exposed throat.

If John had thought their previous sessions of jugular feedings felt strange, this particular bite proved that he still had very little experience with vampire feedings. The other occurrences were all about control; Sherlock took only strictly allotted amounts with a specific purpose in mind.

Not now. This was about quantity, pure and simple.

An incredible spike of pain shot up and down his vein as Sherlock's fangs sank deep into the flesh of his neck. John released a startled shout, his limbs twitching in shock against Sherlock’s constrictive hold on him. Sherlock pressed in hard, straining the muscles of John’s upper back as they bore the full, jarring force of the fangs. They lodged far deeper than John thought physically possible; surely Sherlock was piercing straight through to the other side? Obviously, Sherlock had tried to cause minimal pain during their previous feedings. All courtesy was now succinctly dismissed.

Sherlock clutched John tight to his chest, securing him in place, and began consuming his blood in great swallows. He drank at a frenzied pace, ribs heaving with every gulp. Familiar lightheadedness spread within John’s skull as his blood pressure rapidly decreased. He clung to Sherlock with his left arm, holding the vampire steady as he fed as much as grounding himself against the excruciating sensations.

Mycroft stood not five feet away, visibly unsettled by what he was witnessing. John found himself making unwitting eye contact with the other vampire over Sherlock’s shoulder. His presence suddenly seemed bothersome and invasive rather than helpful, like an unwelcome intruder witnessing an intensely private rite. Mycroft had never watched them feed, and it was clear he only did it now with great reluctance.

Wet, warm droplets tickled John’s skin as they trailed down his neck and soaked uncomfortably into his shirt. Sherlock was growing hot against him, temperature soaring with the speed of his consumption. John blinked sluggishly at Mycroft as his suited figure slowly slid out of focus.

The lights and colors around him took on a surreal quality. Forms oscillated and rotated within his vision, reeling endlessly away and yet remaining perfectly still. A chill rippled through him and his breathing grew erratic, his points of contact with Sherlock devolving into desensitized weight and odd distant pressure. The muscles in his arms stuttered and loosened until his motor control vanished entirely.

“Get him down!" Mycroft called, alarmed and resonant.

The pinching pain in his neck disappeared and the world tipped as Sherlock lowered him down onto the rough wool of the coat. John’s muscles trembled and contracted uncontrollably.

Sherlock loomed over him, panting as he supported himself on shaking arms. His mouth and jaw, colored bright red, contrasted starkly against his pale skin. The vampire bowed his head and tried to catch his breath.

"It's not done," Mycroft admonished from somewhere above. "Sherlock, for God's sake!"

"In a moment," Sherlock answered in a thin voice. He looked as if he was about to sick up, squeezing his eyes shut and grimacing. He lurched a few times, turning partially away as if on the verge of retching into the grass.

"Breathe, Sherlock. Just like Esther told you. Breathe through it," coaxed his brother.

Sherlock opened his eyes and forcefully sucked in air. John watched, vision hazing, as an aborted shudder pitched through the vampire's diaphragm. His body was desperate to purge, but rather than allow John's blood to be lost Sherlock clenched his teeth in stubborn refusal and went rigid.

John endeavored to speak, to move, but weighted torpor effectively locked down his body. Sherlock held, frozen in a seemingly endless wait, until the nausea finally passed.

Discomfort etched into his ashen face, Sherlock clamped a warm, sweaty hand around John’s neck. He adjusted John's head and, bitterly determined, lowered to continue his feeding. The intense pain renewed and John grunted feebly, nothing more than a brief expulsion of air as Sherlock pressed against his chest.

Any remaining feeling in John's body slowly dwindled as Sherlock ferociously gorged on what was left of his blood supply. The pervasive cold sensation unfurled through every corner of his being, wrapping his mind until thought fuzzed and feeling numbed. His heart palpitated erratically in his chest, each violent thud pulsing hard through constricted blood vessels.

He was coming apart. A shattering precipice loomed, a cliff edge drawing him inexorably toward the oncoming plunge. Sherlock struggled to keep pace with the weakening blood flow in his jugular vein, spending as much time huffing for air as drinking. Blood flowed freely down John’s neck. 

It was almost like infinite freefall, though thanks to Mycroft's herbs no darkness threatened to take him. John would be awake and aware as he died. At least, this way, he could hold onto the feel of Sherlock's presence until the very end. Spasms wracked agony throughout John's chest cavity, hard and dry and exhausting. Sherlock tensed and curled protectively around him. He fed as desperately as he could manage. It wasn't enough.

 _It’s all right_ , he wanted to tell Sherlock. _It’s all right. I understand_. _I’m killing you. It’s only fair you kill me in return._

Mutual destruction hung just beyond reach. The promise of a slow, demanding death. Patient oblivion.

But then Sherlock stopped.

He stilled, sensing something John couldn't; considering, processing. A curious, guttural noise rumbled out of his chest and he retracted his fangs from John's neck with a cursory swipe of his tongue, pulling back stiffly onto his knees. A strange, entranced expression invaded his features, as if encountering the grandest revelation of his life. Sherlock calmly closed his eyes and concentrated with severe focus.  

Below, John breathed in shallow, frantic gasps as his survival instincts were pushed to the absolute limit. Without Sherlock's warm weight on him, the freezing air spread over his skin like a sharp spray of ice. He coughed and choked on his own saliva, barely able to swallow or breathe or think.

Scalding hands touched his jaw, tilting his head until Mycroft supplanted Sherlock. The fingers slid lower, searing as they went, to press against his neck. John gurgled in protest, vaguely aware of his muscles violently trembling beneath his skin.

"Quickly," Mycroft urged. " _Quickly_ , Sherlock."

"Quiet," Sherlock ordered, eyes still shut.

John's lungs seized as they failed to draw air. His body prickled painfully, nerve endings shutting down completely without the oxygen to sustain them. Mycroft's hand pressed against his forehead and he muttered a few inaudible phrases. The air came more easily and John took long shuddering breaths that burned with each inhalation.

Sherlock's eyes snapped opened, bright and vivid. He glanced down at John, a beautiful smile on his lips, though John was incapable of doing much more than looking back in response. Sherlock bent to reach his neck and quickly embedded his fangs into the flesh once more. This time, however, his purpose was to return the blood he had borrowed.

It was as if receiving the longest and largest injection of his life. The life-giving fluid seeped back into John's veins and arteries, a glorious rush of relief, Sherlock gently stroking his hair as he was rejuvenated. John's breathing evened and his shivering subsided, glad for the warmth of the vampire against him. His tensed muscles gradually uncoiled, aching deeply from far too much time spent involuntarily contracted.

Strangest of all, a charged energy seemed to be gathering around his skin. It was like a heavy field of electromagnetism, dense like ozone, encompassing every inch of his body.

Sherlock finished and ran the softer parts of his mouth over John's puncture wounds, then pulled away to reveal his fangs were finally retracting. His jaw remained smeared with John's blood and as he sat up Mycroft handed him a towel to clean himself off. Sherlock took a moment to catch his breath, inquisitively hovering one hand along the skin of John's arm. He raised his eyebrows in amazement.

"Can you feel it?" Mycroft asked from somewhere to the left. "Is he receptive?"

Sherlock nodded. "I think so. Yes."

John felt it too. The world had thickened, grown viscous like oil, until it rippled with strange ebbs and flows of varying intensity. His body reverberated with the waves as they lapped at him, nudging him this way and that like a tuning fork searching for pitch. The symbols scrawled on the archways pulsed low and steady, each shape an individual frequency. But the most prominent source of energy radiated from Sherlock himself. His current spoke of familiarity and déjà vu, a warm memory long forgotten. John’s body instinctively reached out every time Sherlock’s pulse hit, seeking to sync even as the rhythm repeatedly slipped away.

"John?" Sherlock asked, prodding him gently.

Wheezing a little, John tried to smile at him but failed miserably. Underneath the weird energy, his whole body was fused into one massive, horrible ache.

Sherlock glanced to his brother. "Is he all right?”

Mycroft came into view, standing high above. "He's just endured significant physiological trauma, Sherlock. Of course he isn't all right."

"That's not what I meant," Sherlock groused.

"No, nothing went wrong," Mycroft said, more gently. "It’s him. Look: his eyes are focused and tracking you. The draught is keeping him conscious. He can hear you, Sherlock, though I wouldn’t expect an articulate answer in his state."

An enormous bang broke the quiet. In unison, Sherlock and Mycroft pivoted their heads toward the locked doors, but neither betrayed anything but cold, calm recognition of the situation. Muffled thuds continued on, as if someone outside were placing objects on or around the doorway.

"Time is of the essence," said Mycroft. He turned back to Sherlock. "I'll see if I can delay them. I haven't remotely interrupted a spell in one hundred and seventeen years, but we'll see what can be done. It's on you both, now."

Mycroft flipped through his note pages, searching, and Sherlock returned his gaze to John. The vampire appeared very much in want of a rest, but he shifted around and leaned in so that his eyes were exactly level with John's.

Sherlock remained there, staring, for a moment, then two... and gradually a pressure manifested deep inside John’s skull, like an oncoming migraine. He blinked repeatedly, but the sensation intensified into a profound ache behind his eyes. He instinctively tried to shift his head away, but his motor controls were drastically diminished and he only managed a weak shake from side to side.

"John, don't move," Sherlock said quietly, raising a hand to hold his head in place. A few insistent thumps floated over from the doors, and Sherlock hummed in annoyance. "Damn it all, why can't they _shut up_! I need to concentrate!”

"Ah!" Mycroft said, peering closely at one of his papers. "Here we are."

The pain in John's head magnified as Sherlock maintained his eye contact, sharp and precise as if a physical object were being forced inside his head. The feeling was unnatural, but his first instinct was to welcome it despite the discomfort. Sherlock's pale gaze remained unrelenting as John's eyes watered from the pain. Tears pooled and trailed down past his temples.

"It shouldn't hurt him this much," Sherlock said with a note of concern, not moving his eyes.

"It's never been attempted with an Immune," replied Mycroft. "He's probably resistant. Force your way past it."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and suddenly the agony increased tenfold. It blotted out any other thought in John’s head; all he knew was a whitewash of unavoidable invasion.

The tension pushed and pressed, tightening down. John instinctively reached out and pulled at the connection just beyond his grasp. Sherlock was speaking, somewhere, unintelligibly. And then something punctured; the tip of a knife piercing through a taut film. A pair of hands pressed flat upon his shaking shoulders. Sherlock's face dissolved away into a sudden spray of electric blue, bleeding through John’s vision until he lost all sense of spatial awareness.

Sherlock’s unique rippling pattern thrummed through his body, seeking, rushing. John snared tight to it, the core of him effortlessly bending, flexing, transforming until it mimicked the invading resonance. They snagged together, mutually attracting the other, and the sheer force of the collision sent them both spinning in a scattered, dissonant streak.

Locking together, separated only by a blade-thin seam, they slotted into perfect alignment. Time slowed to an infinitesimal crawl. And then something squeezed.

Filament to filament, they were as two blazing wires fusing together in a molten shower of sparks. John’s very essence ripped away, an undertow torn out of his possession and replaced with something so much more powerful. Sherlock was there with him, external and internal, flooding back and forth until they forged as one. Continuous and connected, as if meant to be that way from the very start.

Blinding awareness of Sherlock came as their union solidified. Raw, inside and out, it pulsated through John like a lifeline. For one glorious instant, he felt _everything_.

A shockingly deep well of emotions loomed before him. It was a riotous mess that Sherlock sharply policed, but there was no hiding here. Not from John. He sensed fear, and pride, and trust, and loathing. Frustration, and mirth, and loneliness, and gratitude.

Tempering it all, the steady counterbalance to the erratic others, lived a dense ball of emotion centered directly upon John himself. It was so strong, so sure in itself. A vast and all-consuming love that left John breathless to sense it. He had never doubted, not once, but feeling Sherlock's utter contentment in loving him left John overwhelmed.

The emotional clarity evaporated almost as soon as it came. The single snapshot disintegrated like sand filtering between his fingertips. John let it go.

It had been enough.

 

\---

 

“John.”

Distantly, someone called for him.

“ _John_.”

Pressure and pulsing. Dimness.

“We haven't much time. _John_.”

Insistent and now intimately close, each word fluttered past his cheek in a caress of air. John groaned, soft and automatic. It felt as though a 40-ton lorry had recently collided with his head and a vehicle only slightly smaller had done the same with the rest of his body.

"He’s coming out of it.” The familiar tones receded a bit. “For God’s sake. _John_.”  

John struggled to crack open his eyelids, but they refused to obey. Divine warmth soaked into the back of his head, soothing the ache splitting his skull, and the scent and feel confirmed Sherlock was right there beside him. John's eyesight filtered out into gradients of recognizable color and he realized his eyes were already open.

Sherlock peered at him, his face upside down, errant streaks of blood mixing with the sheen of sweat on his skin, but otherwise gloriously, wonderfully alive. The vampire was carefully cradling John's head in his lap and as he saw the recognition in John's eyes, Sherlock smiled. He looked absolutely perfect.

“Sh’lock,” John slurred around his tongue, thick and heavy. God. Sherlock was all right. They were _both_ all right. John wanted to cry from relief and reach out to hug and kiss him. He wanted to run his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and give him a full medical examination, feel the rhythm of his pulse. To confirm, indisputably, that John had not caused the unthinkable to happen.

All of that was beyond his abilities, though, so he settled for blinking appreciatively.

Fingertips grazed John's cheek and snaked a warm trail down toward his collarbones. Sherlock's smile broadened into an enormous grin.

“You’re mine now," he purred lightly. Sherlock’s satisfaction was palpable. "It’s done.”

Done? John coughed out a few times, the muscles in his throat stiff and uncooperative. Was being bound supposed to feel different? He didn’t feel anything but pain and dizziness. The vampire's face wavered like a mirage and John groaned again.

His face must've shown confusion, because Sherlock’s grin abruptly faded. He palmed John's chest, pressing here and there, and made a frustrated noise. “Not the cleanest job. I'd expected you’d take it hard, but I was forced to be less gentle than I’d hoped.”

“You’re sure it took?” Mycroft asked from somewhere nearby.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and glanced to his left. “Yes, obviously. Can’t you do something for him?”

“My supplies are limited," Mycroft sighed. "Finding Esther is-- oh, not again! Away from me, if you would!”

The warm, crossed legs pulled out from beneath John in a mad scramble, thunking his head down onto the wool of the coat. John turned his head in time to see Sherlock land a few feet away. Bent low on all fours, he started violently dry-heaving into the grass.

Mycroft appeared at Sherlock’s side, frowning disconsolately as he monitored the episode. One of his hands twitched as if he wished to place it on his sick brother's shoulder to comfort him. 

Sherlock sat up when it passed and shuffled on hands and knees back to John. The angle underscored the dark lines beneath Sherlock’s eyes and John could see even more traces of dried blood lingering around his throat.

“Christ,” John grunted, eyes wide with concern.

Sherlock coughed wetly and knelt. “Residual nausea. It’s nothing,” he explained.

Flippancy at its finest. John glared in disapproval.

“If you’ve finished decorating the lawn...” Mycroft interceded, glancing at Sherlock as he stubbornly weathered John’s look. “Perhaps it’s time we got him upright.”

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock insisted he be the one to move John. It was a difficult process to force his joints to unlock from stasis, but John took a vague pride in how he at least managed to return Sherlock’s grasp and plant his feet on the ground. Together they plodded over to the dais of Mummy’s tomb.

Dark blood stained the upper half of John's shirt, the material clinging to his chest in places. Going by the cold, itchy patches on the skin of his neck, it was all over him.

Sherlock helped him down to rest against the cold marble. It jutted uncomfortably into John’s back but, all the same, he was relieved to be upright after the ordeal of the binding. As soon as John was settled a heavy weight draped over his shoulders; Mycroft had brought Sherlock’s bloodstained coat over and placed it on him. “Be sure to stay warm,” he advised.

"I'll see to it," Sherlock said. He wedged up beside John and wrapped one arm around him, gifting much-needed warmth beneath the wool. John nestled into his heat, his eyelids heavy. He wanted nothing more than to shut his eyes and sleep away the relentless exhaustion clouding his body and mind.

“They’ve caught onto my parlor tricks." Mycroft spared a quick shake of the head toward the doors, periodic knocks emanating from the vampires on the other side. “I can't counter their spells any longer. There's nothing left to do but wait.”

“Inevitable. Check him, would you?” Sherlock said to his brother. His thumb skirted the nape of John’s neck, careful and protective.

Mycroft hummed pensively and uttered a few quick words under his breath, then leaned over to touch John’s forehead. The touch brought a sudden spark upon contact, alighting through John’s nerves and startling him to attention. Mycroft jerked his hand away almost immediately. "My God,” he said.

“Good?” Sherlock inquired, sounding hopeful.

Agape, Mycroft glanced between them both. “It's remarkably strong, given the circumstances. Despite our stunted preparations you must’ve taken to one another like magnets to achieve a binding so robust. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if more experienced practitioners of spellcraft could sense it on John from a moderate distance.”

John didn’t feel anything but aching tiredness. Was he supposed to feel different? Nothing stood out, nothing more prominent than the hurt in his body and the irregular beating of his heart, as if it was trying to gyrate right out of his chest.

“You'll both need significant rest,” Mycroft continued. “John especially. We must get him to Esther as soon as we can. Ideally in your room where the sigils may stave off the worst of his symptoms.”

The arm around John tightened. “I need to finish. The compulsion,” Sherlock urged.

“Binding him is the best we can hope to achieve right now. I don’t think-”

“’Best we can hope'. As in not optimal.”

“No,” Mycroft conceded, “but we haven't the time. And we must consider the risks of further exacerbation at this stage.”

“We injured several of them on the way here,” Sherlock countered. “They’re out for blood, and I’ll not leave them any technicalities to use against us. We’re going to meet the terms of the original agreement.”

Mycroft glanced away toward the battered doors. “Then hurry.”

Sherlock adjusted himself, fingers guiding John’s head until he was looking up into Sherlock’s clear eyes. John fought through the encroaching fatigue. God, he just wanted to sleep.

"John,” said Sherlock, shaking him a little to get him to open his eyes more. “Stay with me.”

“’s ‘kay,” John mumbled. “I’m ‘wake.”

“This will feel intrusive,” Sherlock said. “I need your compliance for this to work, so try not to fight.”

John blinked dully. He was drained and sore and unsure how much fight he could squeeze out of himself, even if he wanted it. Sherlock was so very warm, and his eyes shone a beautiful crystalline blue in the firelight. He was... inviting. Yes, that was the word. Alluring. Ideal, really. John could stare at him all night.

He jolted when a sharp sliver of something prodded at his mind. Acutely invasive, the sensation shook John from his admiring stupor and summoned a deep internal uneasiness. John’s stomach clenched, his frame tensing in Sherlock’s arms as he instinctively swatted away the probing. His body wasn’t clamoring for this sort of connection, as with before; a foreign entity wanted entrance and everything in John’s gut shouted back in refusal.

“Haste, Sherlock,” Mycroft called in warning.

“Let me,” Sherlock murmured softly. “Let me, come on.”

The thin line pushed at him, urging access once more. John tried to let him through, but the feeling was far too similar to an ambush. He’d experienced this before, the sudden alarm when confronted with an unexpected enemy force, and the instinct for self-defense was too strong. He heard himself whimpering, feebly, in protest.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, a flicker of hurt passing through them. “You know I would never hurt you,” he said quietly.

“I know,” John whispered back. Of course he knew it. This was Sherlock. He tried to relent, but it was _so_ easy to block out the attack.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft nearly shouted.

“John,” Sherlock urged, low and beseeching. “ _Please_.”

John’s resolve tipped, agonizingly slow, until it fully capsized. The external force began chipping away, sanding John’s defenses down to their barest layer. Sherlock was almost through—

The doors exploded off their hinges, heavy wood erupting inward as if made of thin balsa.

Sherlock swore and glanced up in alarm as splintered shards of wood fell in a rain of shrapnel. The presence inside John's head vanished with the broken eye contact.

“Prepare yourselves," Mycroft muttered as the dust cloud settled. "Mercy is not in their nature.”

 

\---

 

Over a dozen figures streamed through the blown doorway, wielding torches or pistols or antagonistic frowns with their well-cut suits and slicked hair. They strode across the courtyard with Wilkes at the lead.

Mycroft stepped forward to blockade them. "You will leave at once,” he demanded. “How dare you disrespect the sanctity of my sire's tomb! It's _reprehensible_ -"

"I intend to depart as soon as our business is concluded," Wilkes interrupted, his words clipped with deep annoyance. "Step aside or incur charges of your own. Willfully harboring an Immune? Intentions to undermine explicit orders of the council? Collusion in the assault on one of our own? Your brother has acted with alarming imprudence, even for his standards. Rucastle may yet die and I dare say Sherlock will be locked up for the next century at the very least. Are you so keen on joining him?"

"Rucastle is an idiot for getting in my way," Sherlock sniped sourly, a rumble right next to John.

Mycroft spared a displeased glance back to silence Sherlock. "Whatever you've been told, your orders are no longer applicable," he smoothly said to Wilkes and the others. "Sherlock has established his claim over John. They are bound. By customary law and tradition you cannot confiscate that which belongs to him."

“They completed a binding ritual?” one of the shorter vampires asked incredulously. A multitude of eyes glanced toward Sherlock and John's blood-stained appearances.

“Yes. Test him, if you wish," Mycroft continued, his tone implying doing so would be a ridiculous waste of time. "This human is bound and compelled to silence per our agreement with the elders." The lie rolled off his tongue with remarkable fluidity. "Any charges must be laid upon Sherlock himself and dealt with in a court of our elders."

That struck a chord of unease within the vampires. A few murmured between themselves.

"We'll judge your claims for ourselves," Wilkes responded pointedly. "We've a few of the most talented spellcrafters in the country. They'll discover the truth. If there is even the slightest fallacy in your claims, we are authorized to conduct the Immune's execution this very night."

Mycroft stiffened. Visible discomfort in his body language was a very bad sign. "You cannot execute him. Sherlock is not merely bound to him; he is entirely dependent on John's blood supply for sustenance. You know the spell of which I speak."

"A perversion," someone said.

“You’re lying,” Wilkes accused.

"If you remove this human, you are condemning one of our own to death. Only the council can order such a thing.”

Wilkes' mouth twitched into a slight smile. "Then he's a fool in providing for his own undoing. His blood is not upon our hands, but his own."

“Let them through if they must be convinced,” Sherlock said. “The sooner they begin the sooner they can leave.”

“Your brother has the right idea,” Wilkes teased, still watching Mycroft. “And he seems amenable, for once. We will be satisfied or you may come to lose far more than you already have, Holmes. I suggest you stand aside.”

With a cursory nod of the head, Mycroft stepped aside. Wilkes and his men bristled with supremacy. Two stayed behind to monitor Mycroft while the rest swept past the vampire.

Sherlock’s hand pressed tighter underneath the coat covering John. As the group approached them, a knot of deep concern formed in the pit of John’s stomach. Sherlock hadn’t finished his compulsion. This was going to be bad.

“Quite a violent game of hide and seek, earlier,” Wilkes said to Sherlock. “Rucastle will bring charges against you, although I suppose you expected as much. Sholto? Please separate our subjects."

“I’m staying here,” Sherlock growled. “He’s not well.”

“Then he best become so,” Wilkes threatened.

Sherlock's silence echoed the trepidation rising within John. Its length seemed interminable, punctuated only when the vampire's shoulder shifted uncertainly beneath John's aching head. John internally girded himself. He was going to receive the worst of whatever was to come. Quite frankly, he wouldn't have it any other way, recent exsanguination or not.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock inquired.

“Yes?” replied his brother from where he stood under guard.

“A transfer,” Sherlock said, not breaking eye contact with Wilkes.

Mycroft frowned deeply. “Absolutely not.”

“ _Yes_ ," Sherlock insisted. "A transfer from me."

Mycroft considered whatever it was Sherlock was asking. He looked from Sherlock down to John. Weighing.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said, softer.

His brother shook his head and sighed. “All right.”

"Sherlock?" John murmured in confusion.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked down to John, revealing nothing, then swept back to Wilkes. “Abduct him, move him, touch him more than is absolutely necessary, and I won't hesitate to kill you. All of you,” Sherlock warned. “Once you've concluded your tests you will leave. Permanently. I will answer for any accusations, but you will never again set foot on this estate nor any other residence belonging to our family.”

Considering the threats, Wilkes simply nodded. "We'll see, shall we?

Then Mycroft's cold hand was pressing to John's cheek. Quick and disarming, he only just detected the words being spoken, the uncharacteristic sagging of Sherlock’s body against him before...

An immense spike of adrenaline erupted through his body. John flew upright as if thrown by an electrical current, intensely alert, just as Sherlock slumped over beside him.

The taste of metal lined his mouth. “Sherlock!”  

The vampire was out cold, his face tensionless against the grass.

“He’s fine, John,” came Mycroft's voice.

John blinked rapidly. The painful weariness was gone, replaced by perfect, attentive clarity. The world hummed with oversaturated colors and sounds; every rustle of wind, every shift of clothes and release of breath registered in his eardrums. Movements appeared too fast and yet, at the same time, far too slow. His heart thumped hard in his chest. “What-?”

Mycroft’s concerned face wavered in front of him. “I transferred his remaining strength to you.”

“Oh,” John said, peering around with wide eyes. “Oh.”

“It feels like you’re on a caffeine high, yes?” Mycroft explained cautiously. “As if you’ve had a quadruple espresso? Same energy, same crash, I’m afraid. We have only a short while before you end up like him.” He pointed to his unconscious brother.

“Are you sure he’s fine?” John moved to get up. “I need to see to him-”

Mycroft’s hand shoved him back down. “No, don’t stand up. You may feel fine, but your body is severely debilitated, John. I don’t want you to collapse. Sherlock intended for us to use this time for the business at hand.”

True enough, all eyes were on John. He stared back, clearly, lucidly, and clenched onto the underside of the coat spread across his lap.

“Right,” he said.

Sherlock hadn’t finished. The vampires needed to know he wouldn’t talk. Ever.

He didn’t want to think about what they might do to prove it. He had to convince them. Somehow, it needed to appear he was bound to silence.

Mycroft enlisted a few of the others to carefully lift Sherlock's slack body and place him flat on the ground a few feet away. Mycroft checked his pulse briefly and shot a small nod toward John.

Wilkes curiously weighed John's condition. Amusement flickered across his face. “Doctor.”

It was difficult, but John diverted his attention away from Sherlock. “Mr. Wilkes,” he replied guardedly.

“We should have dealt with you last we came, " he said, waving a dismissive hand. "None of these… last minute complications. You’re brave, I grant you. Braver than many Immune we’ve caught. I would have expected weeping, by now. Supplication. But I suppose that doesn’t suit you, does it? Not even for him?”

John tilted his head. “Get on with it.”

He pointed out John’s bloody clothing. “Quite the mess, aren’t you? You think you can uphold this obvious fiction? Make us believe he’s bound and compelled you with no aid, no spellcrafter? No. You would be dead right now if he’d even tried.” Wilkes sat on his heels to better look John in the face. “You’re a smart man. A soldier. Do the noble thing. Come peaceably, face your sentence, and we will be lenient with Sherlock.”

As if that would ever happen. Wilkes didn’t appear to believe any of their claims, including Sherlock’s dependence on his blood.

“Get. On. With. It,” John bit out.

Wilkes stood. “Trevelyan.”

A bright-eyed young man stepped forward, appearing barely college-aged but possessing an air of learnedness. He pulled Sherlock’s coat away from John (garnering even more curious stares for the additional blood on John’s injured arm) and tossed it aside into a crumpled pile. John shivered, although he couldn't properly feel the cold.

Trevelyan motioned toward one of his companions and was handed a coin-sized talisman made of a dark, polished stone. He pressed it between his hands and muttered a long string of words.

“Mycroft already tested me,” John said. “We’re bound.”

“A touch, was it? Such a method only allows the practitioner to sense your end of the connection,” Trevelyan said. “We must confirm who is on the other side.”

Cupping the stone in one hand, Trevelyan touched it down onto the exposed skin of John’s neck. The smooth stone flared hot.

A few feet away, Sherlock instantly convulsed. His eyes rolled under closed lids, and Mycroft lurched away to give Sherlock space as his spine arched in painful torsion. He writhed reflexively, body twisting into agonizing angles despite his lack of consciousness.

John's left arm was swinging free, then, of its own volition; he didn't even register his reaction until his fist collided with Trevelyan’s bowed head. The vampire lost contact with John and launched backwards from the force of it, landing flat on his back.

Sherlock's violent spasms stopped and he went limp once again, still trembling. A trickle of blood flowed from his nose.

Wincing, Trevelyan raised his shoulders off the ground. A newborn bruise reddened his cheek. “They are bound, Mr. Wilkes.”

“Evidently,” Wilkes said. “Raise a hand to another of us again, doctor, and you will lose it.”

“Me, not him,” John threatened in return. His arm felt numb all the way up to the shoulder and he very much doubted a second strike would end successfully, but he knew a thing or two about intimidation.

“Trevelyan, please continue.”

The youthful vampire rubbed at his face and clambered to his knees as the rest of the vampires crowded closer, curiosity aroused. Trevelyan came close and, cheek swelling, tapped two fingers under John’s chin. “Eyes up.”

John obliged. Dark eyes bore into him, unblinking, until John felt a mild pressure probe at his mind. The sensation proved dull and ultimately ineffective; there was something far larger and more permanent in its way.

Trevelyan’s intrusion pushed further, roundabout as if digging for the edges of a buried box and prying into the shallows of John’s brain.

“It’s strong, sir," Trevelyan reported, his eyes focusing hard. "And very fresh. It's difficult to parse anything but the binding."

"Unverifiable." Wilkes said, nodding. “Take him out front and send for the others." John was sure his pulse was about to leap out of his neck from alarm. “I want this done clean and fast, no mess and no noise. Keep the Holmes’ here until we can decide-“

“Try again,” John demanded.

Trevelyan genuinely appeared as if he wanted to help, but he shook his head sadly. “It’s no use. I can’t distinguish-“

“Then you’re shit at looking, because Sherlock did it,” John lied, imposing every iota of military authority he could muster.

The vampire stared at him as would a young, impressionable recruit being reprimanded by his commanding officer. “Coercion,” Trevelyan suggested to Wilkes. “A practical demonstration. I can try forcing him to talk.”

The muscles in Wilkes' jaw tensed. “Proceed.”

The presence pushing at John’s mind expanded, almost overwhelmingly, as it slithered unstoppably through the avenues of his mind. Defensive instincts stirred up, he tried to damn the spread and resist its influence, but unlike Sherlock's attempts it wasn't susceptible to blockade. Nothing stemmed the disturbing sense of invasion.

“Something easy to start," Trevelyan said as he concentrated. "Tell me your name.”

The coercion constricted and John’s mouth opened before he could stop himself. “John Hamish Watson.”

A few sniggers passed around and John blinked in confusion. Wilkes' grin was smug as he nodded approvingly at Trevelyan.

“Who was it that bound you?” Trevelyan continued.

John was ready for the feeling this time, and he shoved back hard just as the squeeze arrived. Trevelyan’s stare intensified as he sensed John fighting him.

It was on the tip of his tongue, about to fall off, teetering on the edge... SherlockSherlockSherlock _Sherlock_ \--

“Sherlock Holmes,” John sputtered at last. He was out of breath, somehow, and the heat of shame flooded his face. “But that's not meant to be a secret. Sherlock would never keep that to himself.”

His head spun as he steadied his breathing. There had to be a way around this, but he was tired and weakened and depressingly unfamiliar with whatever advanced methods of spellcrafting Trevelyan was using. John glanced at Sherlock's lanky, unmoving body. He'd put his life in John's hands, and by God John couldn't let anything happen to it.

John thought back to his military training. How do you defeat someone stronger than you? Smaller than most of his peers, he'd resolved that problem early and often.

Answer: deflect. Use their advantage against them.

Trevelyan wanted him to talk? Well, then, he'd talk.

“Tell me,” Trevelyan urged. “What does it mean to be Immune?”

The constriction came again, but instead of fighting to keep silent John did precisely the opposite.

“I titled our first case A Study in Pink,” he rambled as quickly as his mouth would move. “Sherlock was already following the string of murders when we met and I often wish I had had been there from the very start, or at least known what was happening when we arrived at that first crime scene but Lestrade was kind and accommodating although I think he was mostly humoring Sherlock so that he would stay in Sherlock's good graces and it all happened so fast, most people don’t realize it when they read the blog, it was just hours, you know, only hours from when I first stepped into the flat to when I’d killed to protect him-"

“That’s not what I asked,” Trevelyan interjected.

His words died as the pressure let up. John's vision distorted as when being released from a chokehold. He could talk for hours about Sherlock. Days, really, and it was surprisingly effective to just supplant whatever Trevelyan was trying to tear out of his brain with his thoughts on Sherlock.

Wilkes frowned in disapproval. “Are you sure you’ve got the right part of his mind?”

“Of course I have,” Trevelyan said with the irritability of a man who only rarely found himself failing in his endeavors. “Let’s try again. Are you Immune?”

 _Just focus on Sherlock. Focus on him and keep talking_ -

“I don’t know why I was so surprised when Sherlock intentionally drugged me in Dartmoor,” John blurted when the compulsion resumed. “It was offensive and definitely not on but I didn’t feel he’d betrayed me, necessarily, it was more of a disappointment because I thought it reflected on how little he valued me but later I understood that he needed a reliable test subject who was also human and he couldn’t very well administer it to himself again because it affected vampires differently-“

“Enough of this,” Wilkes said angrily, cutting John off. “Out of the way. I’ll do it myself.”

He pushed Trevelyan aside and in barely an instant a new presence attacked John’s mind. The care and cautiousness of Trevelyan’s intrusions was ripped away in favor of one far less indelicate. Wilkes gripped tight and John barely had time to prepare.

“Irene was knowledgeable about vampires but I don’t think she wanted to be turned,” John shouted hoarsely. “She knew a great deal, enough to pick out a drug that would put a vampire to sleep, but I could tell she was far more interested in Sherlock as a person than his status as a vampire and that was the only time I was ever truly unsure about where we stood because he was so distracted, all the time, and I questioned it, I did, I questioned what I was feeling and what he was feeling for me-“

“Tell me what I want to hear,” Wilkes ordered. “None of these useless trifles. Are you Immune? A simple yes will suffice.”

Black dots flooded John’s vision as the coercion sped blindingly through his innermost thoughts. It was everywhere, so strong and demanding that nothing came to mind that could fill it, could replace what the vampire wanted to hear. His remaining blood rushed in his ears, the pressure red and unrelenting.

“ _Yes_. Say it.”

He wanted to scream it out, just tell them. And there John felt it, finally; a warm, solid bond untouched by the other vampire's aggressive assaults. He clung to it, lashed himself to the one last refuge safe inside him. _Sherlock_. The world exploded around him, save for that unbreakable place.

Then John was shuddering on the ground and he couldn't see and a chorus of voices erupted into chaos.

"What's wrong with him?"

“-you’ve killed him anyway, Wilkes-“

“This demonstration is over,” Mycroft demanded overhead. “This is far beyond humane. If he hasn’t said anything by now then he’s not going to- “

“Mr. Holmes-“

John couldn’t feel his heart beating or the air rushing in and out of his lungs, but he knew, somehow, they were wildly out of control. All he knew was pain and pressure, numbness and blurred figures.

Mycroft was speaking next to him. "It's over. You're safe, John. Just calm- calm yourself-"

“Sherlock,” he gasped against frigid blades of grass.

"John? Breathe, it's- someone hand me the pouch, the brown one!" Mycroft shouted. His voice was laced with fear. "There are two lives in the balance, damn you all!"

"Sherlock," John said again. God, he just wanted to see him. Just once more. “Tell him.”

"He's going into cardiac arrest," someone said from a distance.

Figures pressed in around him. John couldn’t distinguish them. Disorientation. His beating heart cored through his chest, inside to out.

“Everyone back away, give us space!” Mycroft snapped.

“Tell him,” John said again, searching for Mycroft in the shadows around him. It was important, so important.

This was how it ended. There was nothing left. No tears. Nothing. It had all been wrung from him, for weeks, and the only thing John had left was calm.

Mycroft alone refocused in front of him. A final gift. “Tell Sherlock what?” he asked as mad silhouettes danced behind him.

“I tried," John whispered softly. "Tell him." A small smile touched the edges of his mouth.

Mycroft's eyes widened. Terror crossed his face, unfamiliar in its intensity. A man, powerless, watching as his only brother indirectly died.

 _Don't let him suffer long,_ John wanted to say. His eyes slid shut _. Please._

"No, John- _John_ -!"

The rest was lost to buzzing blankness, light and sound muting together. Hands scrabbled at his throat, reverberations thundered through the ground, but none of it mattered anymore. John let himself fall away.


	13. Promises

The smooth metal of the doorknob bled cold beneath his fingertips. He focused on his fingers, awkward in the way they bent around the polished surface and pale as bone in the low sterile light. His hand reacted stiffly and refused to obey. The chill needled his bare skin, as though warning him away, but the deep compulsion to overcome this barrier was too strong to ignore. It deluged him, a leaden need expanding in the middle of his chest. His breath came low and throttled. The other side. He should _be_ on the other side. Why wasn’t--  

The knob finally turned beneath his shaking hand and he pushed the door open with a satisfying creak. Honey-rich light bathed the bedroom, spreading over heavy drapes and carved wood, but everything in the periphery dropped away as soon as he caught sight of Sherlock nestled in the bed. Sweet relief doused his nerve endings. God, so much relief, but the weight crowding his lungs remained. Seeing Sherlock took the edge off, but he needed-- he _needed_ \--

The hardwood floor chilled his feet as he approached the bed. Sherlock lay on his stomach between the sheets, his eyes scrunched closed as if lost in intense concentration, the curve of his bare shoulders peeking out above the edge of the duvet. Closing the distance between them felt better, but still not enough. The ache in his chest tightened as he stood transfixed upon pale lines and loose dark curls spread against the navy-colored pillowcase. An indefinable sense of knowing, of understanding, took him in that moment, as solid and unalterable as the rise of the moon or the glow of the stars. Here lay the locus of his orbit, and he dare not look away.

All at once the tension drained from Sherlock’s expression. Soft silver-blue eyes fluttered open and for a fleeting second he looked alarmingly awestruck, as if he had just experienced the same waning sensation.

Sherlock saw him standing there and quickly found his face. "John?" he asked with a concerned frown. He rose up on one elbow, the duvet falling away from his shoulder.

John blinked a few times at the sound of his name. He abruptly registered the scrawled symbols on the walls, the familiarity of their bedroom in the Holmes manor. Foggy-brained, John shook his head to try and break the clutter and finally noticed where it was he stood. "What am... how did I get here?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as when analyzing a suspect. “Ten minutes ago you stumbled out of bed and went to the toilet," he said slowly.

Thinking hard, John looked back at the door from which he had just emerged. The one leading to the loo. "I don't remember doing that."

Amusement played across Sherlock’s face. "You're disorientated. Come here," he said, extending an arm.

“Wait. Wait, wasn’t…” John looked down at his body and found himself dressed in a t-shirt and soft shorts. A thick, clean bandage wrapped his entire right forearm, enclosing the wrist joint for support. John touched the soft material before glancing back up at Sherlock. “Weren’t we…?”

“In quite a bit of trouble, yes.”

John took a step toward Sherlock. The floor seemed to adopt a slow anticlockwise spin, stopping him for fear of toppling. “We’re all right?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock replied, his eyes darting down to John’s legs.

“We’re not dead?”

“Not as far as I can tell. Now come here before you fall over,” Sherlock insisted. He beckoned with his arm again.

Rather than obey, John glanced warily at the closed door to their room.

“No one’s coming for us, John. I promise,” Sherlock gently urged. “My sentencing is scheduled for next week. We’re safe, for now. Besides, I doubt anyone who saw us would say we’re in any fit state to run away.”

He looked to Sherlock. “The fire?”

“Damage to the ground floor was impressive, although our timely flight spared the manor any further destruction. Thankfully Mycroft saw fit to install a modern sprinkler system years ago, seeing as vampires burn just as easily as humans do. The carriage house fared worse. Nothing left but cinders, I’m afraid. Come _here_ , John.”

His entire body made its aches and pains known as John finally came to the bedside. Sherlock scanned him up and down, then drew back the covers and tugged on the hem of John’s shirt to guide him down.

John eased his legs up under the sheets. The bed was quite warm, and since Sherlock could not generate his own ambient heat John realized he must have recently spent a considerable amount of time lying in it. John settled down with a soft sigh, glad to be off his unsteady feet. "How long have I, uh..."

Sherlock rolled onto his side, carefully providing John space to regain his bearings. "Thirty-one hours, give or take. Mycroft says you gave him a great scare." He paused and briefly bore a sour expression. "I'm grateful I didn't see it.”

John angled his head to look at the vampire. “What happened?”

“I’m not clear on the details, but I awoke here in this room as Esther was seeing to your arm. A fracture, as you suspected. I ensured she tended it correctly. Never say I ignore your first-aid lessons.”

John studied Sherlock while absently running a palm along his bandaged arm. The weight in his chest wobbled wider, like a spinning top losing velocity. The man lay next to him but it felt as if he were a mirage on the brink of disappearing.

“I feel strange,” John said.

A knowing smile grew on Sherlock lips. “Just there?” he asked, touching two fingers to the center of John’s chest, precisely where the sensation had lodged itself.

“Yes.”

Sherlock slid the flat of his palm across John’s chest, spreading his fingers down along the arc of his ribs. John gasped softly as a current of satisfaction swelled with the prolonged contact. The weird feeling in his body rose until it crested through him, head to foot. “That’s me,” Sherlock said, grazing his fingers along the sensitive skin of John’s inner arm. “I didn’t notice how unpleasant it could feel until you got up just now. It’s much more pronounced when we’re apart, I promise you.”

“You’ve got it too?”

Sherlock nodded.

John licked his lips. “What is it?”

Shrugging lightly, the vampire began aimlessly swirling his fingertips where they touched John. A pleasurable buzz followed each trail, drowning out the dull ache inhabiting his body. “Sensitivity to each other’s presence. Esther warned me this might happen temporarily. Often does, with stronger bindings.”

“And ours is strong, is it.”

“Oh, John,” he said disdainfully. “It’s _us_. How could you expect anything less?”

Cheeks warming, John reached up with his good hand to stroke the smooth plane of Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock’s lips parted as John touched him, a quiet puff of air escaping from his flared nostrils.

“I think I like it,” John remarked.

A hungry glint surfaced in Sherlock’s eyes. John pressed at the back of his neck, urging Sherlock low enough for their mouths to meet.

Sherlock enveloped him as they kissed, shifting to insinuate his arms around John with tender purpose. The pleasure of their connection flooded in from all angles and John let himself get lost in it, simply reveling in the now where Sherlock was safe and alive and kissing John like a man reclaiming the promise of his future. It was dizzying, incredible, and John was nearly out of breath, the vampire gripping him close as if John might somehow slip away. Sherlock’s hold was becoming a bit difficult--

John inhaled sharply as his body protested the painful clamp. Sherlock froze for a second before loosening his grasp, his bare shoulders stiff and sudden worry in his gaze. “John? Are you all right? I didn’t mean to-”

“Sorry. Not- not back to fighting form just yet,” John said, wincing as he settled back. “It’s good to see you’ve still got your strength after all that mess.”

Sherlock buried his face against John’s neck and breathed out a frustrated sigh. “I’m distracted, I’m sorry.”

John soothingly petted his hair. “It’s all right. I know you’re not trying to hurt me.”

“It seems that’s all I’m capable of doing, anymore,” Sherlock said.

“It wasn’t your fault, what happened. You did what you could to save us both. That’s all I could ask,” John told him. He studied the canopy above, fingers threading through curls he’d never thought he’d feel again. “You know, I thought it was the end for me, back there. I made my peace and I was ready to go.”

Sherlock hummed into his ear, like a great cat purring, and it sent a shiver through the core of John’s body. “It was the final play. The last card available: _you_. I learned long ago never to bet against John Watson. And I was right. You convinced them.”

“It was close, Sherlock.”

“Yet here we are.”

John laughed softly, looping his arms around Sherlock bare back. Nose pressed to John’s neck, he was getting a prime whiff of John’s blood. As John held on, he detected the faint onset of tremors in his lean body. "Sherlock, do you need to feed?" John asked, pressing at him.

"I’m fine," Sherlock muttered.

Mentally kicking himself, John pushed Sherlock away to get a good look at him. His pupils were already constricted. An addict going through withdrawal would look less desperate. "No, you need to feed. God, I’m so unobservant. You can’t heal properly without blood and I'm your only source."

“You should rest,” Sherlock countered.

“And I can’t do that until I know you’re recovering. You need blood, Sherlock, and don’t you dare say otherwise.”

A wide smile spread across Sherlock's face. “Stubborn, stubborn human. By now I should know better than to argue when you’ve dug in.”

John pressed a quick kiss to his temple. “Don’t you forget it. Now, how do you want to do this?”

Sherlock adjusted to settle over him, careful to avoid John’s injured arm. The warm covers, thankfully, stayed where they were, creating a dark cavern between them. He sniffed long and deep at John’s throat, and when he looked up his canines protruded.

“At length, preferably,” Sherlock answered.

John shot him a bemused glance then lifted his chin to expose his neck. Sherlock placed a hand at John's jaw to keep his head steady, and John had to resist the urge to nuzzle into his palm. He shifted his eyes to watch Sherlock from an angle.

“I never tire of you looking at me like that,” Sherlock said.

“How am I looking at you?”

“Like you’re exactly where you wish to be.”

John smiled. “I am.”

A brief grin flickered across Sherlock’s face before he leaned in to bite with practiced confidence. But as his fangs lodged deep in John’s jugular vein, they forged an instantaneous link to the rest of John’s body. Every individual nerve suddenly sparked to life, overwhelming John’s senses as they lit a maddeningly slow burn underneath his skin. An embarrassing groan rose in his throat as Sherlock began to drink his blood.

Sherlock made a similar noise and was forced to stop feeding, pulling out his fangs. The simmering undercurrent died out in John’s skin, leaving only the lesser sensation of Sherlock’s touch. Sherlock mouthed at his neck as they both struggled to catch their breaths.

John’s brain spun and a prickling sensation buzzed in his toes, fingers, and mouth. Jesus, feeding had never felt like _that_ before. "Not good?" John panted, unsure why Sherlock had cut off.

"Best I’ve ever had, actually," Sherlock replied in a flustered voice. A shiver shook through him. "I’ve fully adapted to your blood. It's just... _Christ_."

Deliciously disarmed, John pressed his tingling lips to Sherlock’s ear. "Then for God’s sake, don’t stop,” he whispered.

Sherlock kissed his neck and nipped at him, his sharp canines dragging along John’s sensitized skin, before latching back on to resume his feeding. The agitating blaze reignited under his skin. John squirmed under Sherlock as he drank, wanting nothing more than to melt fully into Sherlock's lithe form. Heat coiled in the core of John’s abdomen, creeping downward toward his groin.

“Sherlock,” he grunted through the building intensity. “Sher- _ah_ , I can’t-“

John was moving more than he should during a bite and he knew it, Sherlock’s warming body proving an irresistible magnet. John’s hips canted upward again and again, craving contact, until hot palms finally clamped onto John’s waist over his shirt. Sherlock’s hold was reassuring and possessive, devoid of self-control. He snaked an arm under John’s back and lifted his hips, seeking maximum friction, and John felt a small rush of cool air between his spine and the mattress. He realized that Sherlock was completely naked under the duvet as the vampire’s erection rubbed into the thin fabric of John’s shorts. John ground against him in return, equally hard and openly panting. 

Sherlock finally finished drinking, lapping at John’s throat to stop the bleeding and cursing under his breath as John continued instinctively frotting against his stomach. As soon Sherlock finished he found John’s mouth and kissed him deeply, physically renewed and tasting of copper.

The hands at John’s waist slid up under his shirt. “Anything I want, you said,” Sherlock purred against his lips. “Anything.”

“God, yes, _yes_ ,” John growled, scrabbling for a solid hold with his good hand. “Yes, _anything_ …”

Teasingly stroking John through the material of his shorts, Sherlock watched greedily as he let out a whimper. "You took your time in waking up," Sherlock said as he adjusted his position, pressing his own unmistakable erection into John's thigh. "It's been a long wait."

"Jesus," John hissed.

Sherlock reached up and out of sight, beyond John’s head. "Do you know how many times this has happened since the binding?” he complained. “Six. _Six_ , John, with each successive wank more unsatisfactory than the last.” Something cold dropped onto John's shirt, right over his sternum. He looked down and found two unwrapped condoms and a tube of lubricant.

"I'd much prefer the real thing," Sherlock said, snatching up the items and dragging them under the covers.

“Oh, God, yes,” John moaned.

Deliberate hands roughly peeled John's shorts down his legs and he nearly lost it right then, with Sherlock’s eyes glinting and pure want scorching him from the inside out. John reached for Sherlock and was met with pain as his bandaged arm collided with the vampire.

“Let me do it,” Sherlock scolded, shifting his arms.

With Sherlock’s movement came the sensation of a condom unfurling, and John swiftly swore. Sherlock stroked him a little, smirking wickedly as John groaned high in his throat. “No difficulties this time,” Sherlock hummed, low enough for John to feel it reverberate in his chest cavity. Fingers teased his sensitive nerved endings and hurtled John to the razor’s edge of control, delivering an abortive thrust to Sherlock’s palm and undeniably confirming his readiness to perform. “None at all,” Sherlock said, grinning. They kissed again and John gladly abandoned his ability to think.

It was sloppy and distracted and John was vaguely aware of Sherlock still maneuvering his arms, his concentration split elsewhere, but it didn’t matter because he had Sherlock’s lips trapped between his own. He felt drunk on Sherlock’s scent, on his presence. The rightness of being with his bound vampire glowed like a warm light in his chest. Abruptly he became aware that Sherlock was no longer pressing on top of him and John made a noise of frustration, snagging Sherlock’s curls and keeping their mouths together. Sherlock abided him, occasional odd huffs escaping his mouth every now and then, until one slick hand pulled at John’s wrist and forced his fingers to unclamp from Sherlock’s dark hair.

“Ready?” Sherlock murmured, his bright eyes the entirety John’s world.

John blinked at him, dazed from the kissing and the intoxicating glow suffusing his body. Sherlock seemed to be having similar trouble focusing but he smiled broadly as his long fingers reestablished contact with John’s length, unleashing a flood of sensory overload that left him gasping with arousal. John opened his mouth to speak just as Sherlock lifted himself up.

"What- _oh FUCK_ -"

John’s question disappeared along with his brain as burning heat sank over him, _burying_ him, and when his vision stopped spinning Sherlock was sat on him, skin to skin, his lean thighs split over John’s hips. He briefly supported himself with one trembling arm before pushing off to settle upright, his chest straining with controlled breaths as his body clenched around John and his condom-clad erection twitched between them.

John finally recovered his ability to speak, if only in short, choked syllables. “Sher _lock_ Jesus-”

"You are divine," Sherlock rumbled, eyes opening. His dazzling irises focused slowly on John as he experimentally rotated his hips.

It was too much to process. John moaned and his hands instinctively shot up to grab Sherlock’s waist, hoping to direct him, but Sherlock gently deflected his injured arm. “No, John,” he said, voice ratcheting deeper than John had ever heard it. “This is for me.”

And Christ, if Sherlock didn’t take what he wanted. He began his onslaught of rocking, sliding, stroking and generally doing his best to undo the little coherency with which John had woken. John shuddered and groaned as Sherlock moved, forcibly diverting his hands to strangle the bedclothes. He was entirely focused on his dwindling stamina and the hot-blooded pounding coursing straight to his groin, until Sherlock shouted and violently latched his hands onto the headboard, slowing his movements until finally stopping altogether. They remained there, connected, as John’s addled senses reoriented themselves.

John watched in wonder as Sherlock squeezed shut his eyes and shakily exhaled through his teeth, entirely overtaken, and adjusted his sweaty grip on the headboard. Beads of perspiration ran trails down the flushed skin of his throat and chest. He looked utterly human, impaled there; a man unable to control the sensations sparking through his over-stimulated body.

The need to finish him off burned inside John. He planted his feet and rocked his hips sharply upward, just once. Sherlock let out a subsonic groan and nearly lost his hold, fingers streaking down the wood and fumbling for purchase. “ _John_ ,” he gasped, the name ragged in his mouth.

His lovely vampire wasn’t in any state to protest, so John pressed his left palm against Sherlock’s hip to steady him. His skin was hot and he was shaking again, although John suspected that this time it had nothing to do with a need for blood.  

When John started moving in earnest, Sherlock’s mouth parted and his eyes snapped open.

God, if he could go five years back. He’d tell his younger self to not bother pulling every woman in sight because he’d find no greater satisfaction than in the artful lines and thorny presence of one impossibly infuriating man. He’d never have believed it. But here he was, John Watson, former captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, claiming a madman as forever his and not regretting it for a second.

Sherlock was coming apart before his very eyes, arched and tense and perfect, soundlessly mouthing John’s name as he was ravaged from the inside out. That body should be criminal, John decided.

“Bloody gorgeous,” John grunted out. “Fucking _beautiful_.”

But as nice as he looked, it was no comparison for the utter trust Sherlock was showing him. John basked in it as Sherlock unraveled above him, finally losing all control when his hands slipped off the headboard with a sudden thud, landing them chest to chest and cramping John’s thrusts into stilted jerks.

They panted against one another, Sherlock blazing hot around and against him, and John knew he had spent what little energy he had. His previous aches were resurfacing with a vengeance.

“Haven’t given out on me, have you?” Sherlock asked with a breathy laugh.

“Rain check,” John wheezed.

Sherlock rumbled a noise of startling determination. “I think I’ll take it now, thank you.”

The vampire pushed up onto his forearms and resumed their friction. Deep concentration lined Sherlock’s face as he gained speed, the bed rattling in time with his movements. Soon John was gasping aloud, his lungs desperate for air as his body soared high toward blinding heights. Sherlock was grunting fiercely, sinking to within inches of John’s face and locking his gaze. Their fingers linked together, the last lifeline connecting John to the physical plane.

His orgasm hit as a burst of white fire in his veins, Sherlock riding it out and muttering unheard phrases as John purged inside him. There were stolen kisses and fingers in John’s hair and a quivering against his stomach, everything near and yet so very distant from him. He barely distinguished the moment of his separation from Sherlock, just warm hands and the tug of latex sliding free.

Sherlock draped over him afterward, a living blanket. “John,” he sighed, both an assertion and a confirmation all in itself. His gaze settled comfortably onto John and stayed there, content to languidly observe.

“That’s what you wanted?” John asked when he found his voice again. “Out of all your bloody options, _that’s_ what you chose?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock said. “Taking into account your poor mobility, your lack of practical experience with a male partner, and my bothersome need to have you inside of me as soon as possible, it was the only logical choice. Are you complaining?”

A blush rose high in John’s cheeks and Sherlock smirked. “No, you can- you can do that anytime you like,” John said.

Inquisitive fingertips dug into John’s shirt. “We’ve barely scratched the surface of everything I want to do. We've got plenty of time, and I've got an accordingly long list.”

John pretended he hadn't heard the suggestive lewdness in Sherlock's voice. His face was already warm enough. “Assuming we’re not imprisoned for the next seventy years,” he noted.

“It won’t come to that," Sherlock replied, a bit haughtily. "And it’s me, not we. You are the target no longer, thank God.”

“Where you go, I go,” John said. He pointed to himself. “Food source, remember? We stay together. Underground or across the sea or on the moon for all I care.”

“It won’t come to that,” he said again.

“You’re not as good a liar as you think you are, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock just sighed and folded his arms over John’s chest, humming a little as he considered something. After a moment, he intently met John's gaze. “I should probably get on with it, now that you're relaxed.”

“Get on with-?“

Tentative prodding pressed against John's unprepared mind, cutting him off in surprise. It was the gentlest of inquiries seeking permission to delve inside, and he suddenly understood what Sherlock was trying to do: finish what they started, once and for all.

Sherlock seemed to have found the right approach, because John’s defenses failed to automatically deny the foreign presence as they had before. The endorphins swimming around in his body diluted his stress; he felt open and receptive, and after only a moment's hesitation Sherlock's energy invaded him.

Sherlock’s eyes widened as he poured into John’s mind. “Oh,” Sherlock breathed. “Entry is much easier after I've given you an orgasm.”

“Is that why you had sex with me?" John sputtered, his voice tight as a buzz of agitation rose inside him.

"Not the primary reason," Sherlock replied. "Give me more credit than that, John."

As Sherlock pushed deeper, the intrusion becoming increasingly unsettling. John opened and closed his left fist and tried not to reflexively kick Sherlock out while he rummaged around for whatever it was he needed. John was nearing his limit of self control when a strange, lethargic warmth flooded his neurons. He slackened, melting against the mattress like butter in a pan.

“Good?” Sherlock asked. His pale eyes flickered searchingly and he scrunched his nose in contemplation. “Hmm. Too much, perhaps.”

The warmth evaporated to a fraction of its strength. Sherlock was controlling it; he was mucking about with John’s brain chemistry and making him feel whatever he liked. John blew out an exasperated breath and narrowed his eyes in disapproval.

"Just trying to calm you. I can feel you slipping,” the vampire sighed. “Fine. I think I've found it, anyway.”

Tension spread inside John’s mind, precisely aimed pinpoints flaring to prominence then fading to nothing almost as soon as John detected their influence, like sparks from a welding torch. The work was painstaking, and for a long time they lay entwined, Sherlock focused laser-tight as he closed off pieces of John that posed a danger to his life. Finally, the sliver of Sherlock retreated and John had his brain to himself.

“How was that?” Sherlock asked.

John blinked at him, quite certain he knew how a freshly scrubbed floor might feel. “Odd.”

“It was, a bit, wasn’t it?” Sherlock mused as he shifted off of John. “Never done that before.”

John looked over at him. "Test me."

"What?"

"Ask me something,” he said, a bit anxiously. “To make sure it worked."

Sherlock considered for a moment. "Define Immunity."

He opened his mouth to answer, but as John searched for the words none presented themselves. He thought about it, the poisonous nature of his blood, the searing pain of Sherlock’s venom futilely trying to turn him, the fear in the eyes of the vampires who saw him. It was as though looking through an invisible glass barrier: the information was present and readable, but no longer under his own control.

“All right?” Sherlock asked, and John realized his mouth had been hanging open for nearly a minute.

“It worked,” John finally answered. “I can’t… it’s so strange, but I can’t...” 

Sherlock nodded. His expression went distant.

“Sherlock?”

“It’s finished,” he sighed. “No more of this. No more scheduled feedings or house arrest.” Sherlock’s comforting touch returned as he took up John’s good hand and settled against his shoulder. “You’re safe.”

John laced their fingers together, enjoying the warmth of Sherlock sprawled pleasantly beside him. A sense of peace he’d thought he’d never again experience washed through him, punctuated by the steady smolder brought by Sherlock’s touch. “I felt you,” John whispered. “During the binding.”

“Likewise,” Sherlock replied. He nuzzled further into John, a great mop of curly hair tickling his cheek.

“It almost overwhelmed me. How much you feel.” John smiled gently as he remembered. “How much you feel for _me_.”

Sherlock shifted, raising his head just enough to make eye contact. “Do you understand now?”

Why he had done it. Why Sherlock had relinquished so much just to keep him. A ticking countdown clock.

“I could live two hundred years and never truly understand,” John answered.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but not out of disappointment. On the contrary, he seemed rather contented by John’s response. As if it were expected and therefore entirely reassuring. “I thought not.”

John had never known what had brought them together. He wasn’t equipped to calculate the random strokes of cosmic happenstance and blind fortune that must've aligned to allow them to meet. But when Sherlock looked at him like that, like John was the single, defining answer to some long-standing question… he could almost allow himself to believe in fate. They were joined. They always had been; irrevocably, completely, and necessarily. And they would stay that way for what remained of their lives.

Correction: for what remained of _John’s_ life.

“You stupid man,” John murmured, shaking his head as sadness welled within him. “You utter idiot.”

"You're still angry."

"I'll be angry for the rest of my life," John said.

Sherlock hummed dismissively.

“But you’re mine for what time we have left,” he continued. “So I’ll be here for you. As long as I can. I promise you that.”

“I know. It was never a question for me, John.”

As they both fell quiet, an odd thought struck him. John angled his head, locating the gunmetal grey condom box on the nightstand. "Wait, Sherlock, how did… you just happened to have condoms and lube within arm’s reach?"

"These?" Sherlock asked, knocking over the box and spilling links of individually wrapped packets. "Esther provided them. For our comfort during the proceedings and to prevent a mess."

"Oh, God,” John whined. “ _Proceedings_?"

"I told you John, _six times_ before you woke. Did I not mention binding creates an unnaturally elevated libido for the first several days?” Sherlock tilted his head inquisitively. “I've already suffered through one without you. Now that you're awake, I intend to make up for lost time."

John squeezed his eyes shut. Pleasant heat gathered again at the base of his spine. At the rate it was building, he was grateful for the conveniently-located supplies. "So everyone knows what we're doing, right now. Everyone in the house knows we're going to shag each other's brains out."

"Problem?"

Opening his eyes, John studied Sherlock’s hopeful expression. “No,” he said at last, reaching up to rub a lock of curly hair between thumb and forefinger. “No, not anymore.”

Sherlock opened his mouth and smiled, tongue running along the edge of his teeth as he drank in John.

John narrowed his undoubtedly dilated eyes. “If you think those fangs are coming anywhere _near_ -“

But John was silenced by the vampire’s enthusiastic mouth, the feel and taste of him deluging John’s senses, letting him sink into a perfect sultry haze of sensitized nerve endings and primal physical response.

The world could wait its turn. For now, there was only Sherlock.

 

\---

 

Heavy droplets of rain pattered on the roof of the town car, sending watery trails running down the tinted windows and blurring the stately lines of the manor outside. John restlessly tapped the fingers of his left hand against the leather seat, in time with the rain, and glanced down at his watch again. It was approaching the two-hour mark, and he was giving serious consideration to barging through the front door despite Mycroft’s warnings.

It shouldn’t be taking this long. Their previous “trial” had lasted less than fifteen minutes from beginning to end, and that was with two defendants present. The elder council seemed to disfavor lengthy deliberation of the issues brought before them.

The waiting was killing him. It always had, in Afghanistan. John was built for action, for response, and hiding out in a car while the person he loved received his sentencing was proving the worst hell imaginable. John ceased his tapping and rubbed anxiously at the soft bandage that wrapped his healing wrist, the slim dressing only just peeking out from the sleeve of his coat. 

When Sherlock had left John in the car, he promised things would be all right. The available evidence now pointed to the contrary.

Since their odd mutual sensitivity had faded, the permanent effects of their binding had risen forefront. When close together, they experienced a sense of warm wholeness, like a puzzle slotted perfectly into place. Sherlock said he found it soothing and John agreed whole-heartedly, its steady presence sanding off the rough edges when anger or frustration got the better of them. But today was their first prolonged separation, and absence was manifesting quite differently. It didn’t hurt, precisely, but John’s insides felt… constricted. Agitated. Incomplete.

It wasn't helping.

There was no one outside on the grounds, even though the day was grey and overcast. Mycroft hadn’t said what the vampires would do if they saw John, only cryptically recommending he stay well hidden in the car.

But John had reached the end of his patience when it came to vampires. He peered at his watch once more and the decision was made.

John unlocked the door and slipped out into the rainy afternoon, a chilly gust of wind rustling his coat as he took in the property. The manor was all pale brown stone and dark, shuttered windows. His footsteps crunched along the gravel drive, but none of the fear present at his initial abduction gripped him. John entered now as a rescuer, not a prisoner.

No guards stood sentry and no one came running when John pushed open the front doors and let himself inside. The house was ancient and dim, palpably ruled by cyclical rhythms and expectancy. Change did not come naturally to the vampires, John reflected, and yet their turning of Sherlock had forcibly wrought so many alterations in what to them must seem a short space of time. He now saw them for what they were: fearful creatures witnessing unprecedented transition, possibly the doom of their kind, cowering behind rite and protocol like frightened children. John pitied them, in a way, even as he loathed them.

Memory served him poorly, distracted as he was the last time he’d traveled these aging halls, so John chose his route at random, turning the heads of occasional confused figures that he passed without so much as acknowledging their presence. He relied on the strength of the blind longing in his chest to alert him when Sherlock was drawing near. He’d search the entire manor if needed. He'd force his way into the subterranean levels, or rip the drapes from the windows, or flash the silver knife he’d taken to permanently carrying until the vampires told him Sherlock’s location. Separation meant death for Sherlock. John would find him and stay with him even if it led to his own captivity.

The intensity of John’s focus didn’t wane until he found himself in a salon of fading wallpaper, dark wood, and darker expressions. Vampires, male and female, lounged and leaned in small intimate groupings, eyes turned and attention piqued at the sudden arrival of the scent of fresh prey.

John cleared his throat, the tight discomfort of Sherlock's absence shrinking inside of him. Sherlock must be close, though not in this room.

The vampires kept their distance and adopted varied expressions, some haughty, some genuinely curious at the unexpected human in their midst. John judged his options, glancing tentatively at the multitude of shut doors leading away from the salon, but before he could pinpoint the appropriate direction a pale, angular man stepped forward.

He wore a handsome charcoal bespoke suit, with slicked nut-brown hair and otherworldly green eyes. His nostrils flared faintly, smelling John. “What sweet wind has blown this lone morsel before us?” he doted, patronizing and charming all at once. “Have you lost your way, my darling? Is there a master nearby in want of his thrall?”

“I… haven’t got a master,” John replied. It was an ongoing adjustment to effectively communicate without using the concepts denied to him by Sherlock’s compulsion, especially in the presence of vampires, but as this one’s eyes lit with predatory interest John got a terrible, beautiful idea that suddenly made him appreciate his inability to be direct.

“No master? Not a thrall?” the vampire said, feigning a piteous frown and tutting. “Oh, dear, dear. We can’t have unaffiliated humans running loose about the manor.”

“No, not at all, Clay,” added a woman in a floor-length gown in darkest plum. “Fair game, that’s the rule.”

"Fair game for what?" John charaded.

Clay smiled toothily at John. His fangs weren’t down, but the pleasure of the hunt was written in the lines of his face. “Have you ever experienced a feeding, my pet?” he asked, his tone enchantingly light. “Ecstasy, most call it. Indescribable bliss.”

John’s height was advantageous in only select circumstances, and he purposefully used it now to seem small and vulnerable. He nodded demurely, innocently. “Once. I was told I was the best they’d ever had.”

That got their attention. The vampires that had been seated rose to their feet, making for twelve or thirteen in total, their expressions as focused as Clay. Sherlock once explained that fresh meals tended to be rare for the more reclusive of their kind, relying on infrequent volunteers or permanent thralls when bagged blood became too unappetizing. Some of the older ones mistrusted the newfangled packaging and opted to wait weeks between their living meals.

Clay and his friends were making a convincing case for counting among the recluses. “Would you like to... indulge yourself?” Clay asked softly.

John glanced around. “All of you?”

The vampire laughed, an elegant sound. “My, my. Eager, aren’t we? Is that what you’d like, my dear? A group feeding?”

 _Go ahead, the lot of you,_ John thought. _Drink your fill. I’ll gladly poison you all._

John smiled. “Very much so.”

He stepped forward, mere inches from touching John, and sniffed at him. A thrill of adrenaline flooded through John’s veins. Christ, Sherlock was right: he _did_ get off by toeing the line.

“You’re not the least bit frightened,” Clay observed. “How interesting.”

“Should I be?” John murmured. Suppressing a smirk became increasingly difficult. He was fishing for sharks and God, he didn’t care. “Is it… dangerous?”

“As dangerous as you wish it to be,” Clay said, automatically licking his lips and revealing his fangs had descended. The vampire was hooked. John had him on the line, reeling him in toward a painful demise. Perhaps if John got them to drink one at a time, several would die before they caught on…

“Shall we find somewhere more private?” John asked, eyeing the others. “I’ve never enjoyed an audience.”

“Of course. Of course we shall," Clay replied, grinning. "I don’t think I’ve ever met a volunteer quite so bold as you.”

“Looks can be deceiving."

Clay nodded in amusement. “I believe there is a vacant study next door,” he said, motioning for John to follow.

But as they passed the woman in plum, she shrieked. “ _Stop_! Don't you dare leave this room!”

Clay pivoted on the spot. “What are you on about, Madame de Merville?”

“There’s something odd about this one. I can sense it.” She reached out toward John, testing for some invisible field of energy. Horror grew in her eyes. “He’s not a thrall at all. He’s bound. He’s bound to-“

“Sherlock Holmes,” John finished drily, silently cursing his foiled luck. “Does anyone know if his trial has let out?”

Sherlock’s name registered amongst the vampires, and almost in unison a terrible revulsion emerged on their faces. They knew precisely who John was, and what had previously been keen interest disintegrated into panic.

“The Immune?”

“He’d have killed you, Clay-”

"Good God, who let him in here?"

John smiled courteously and raised an eyebrow. “By all means, if anyone still wants a drink-“

“ _John_!”

The familiar voice hit him like a ten-ton weight. John spun, the choke of separation gone from his chest, and Sherlock was standing in the doorway, all six feet of him in his ridiculous coat and tailored posh suit.

John was running toward Sherlock before he could stop himself, their arms reaching out to crush each other in a mutual hug of relief. Both their bodies seemed to exhale against the other, relaxing and seeking contact so overtly that John knew Sherlock had felt the very same discomfort in their parting. Christ, he would need to wean himself off this desire for constant contact or he’d never accomplish anything more than a hurried shopping trip.

“Oh, thank God,” John breathed into his coat.

“If he’s yours, Holmes, you best take him away before something untoward happens,” Clay said from somewhere behind John, the threat audible in his voice.

“You won’t see either of us again,” Sherlock answered guardedly, releasing John. “Not if I can help it. Come on, John.”

John’s heart pounded as Sherlock tugged him out the door, the wood-paneled corridor whipping by in a delirious blur. Sherlock was free?

“What are you doing outside the car?” Sherlock groused irritably as he pulled John along at a clipped pace.

“I came to find you, you twit,” John said. “What happened? What did they say?”

Sherlock scanned him closely. “You’re exceptionally tense."

John scowled. “What _happened_ , Sherlock?”

“Everything’s all right,” he said absently. “We’re fine, just like I said.”

John grabbed Sherlock’s lapel and halted him as they reached the entrance hall, not twenty feet from open air. “No. I want details. _Now_.”

Sighing, Sherlock glanced down at John with a withering expression. “They sentenced me to one hundred and twenty years of underground imprisonment.”

John stared. He squeezed the wool of Sherlock’s coat with his good hand until his knuckles went white.

“…but they commuted my sentence,” Sherlock finished. “The centuries I’ll lose off the end of my life was sufficient punishment, in their minds. And there’s the small matter of requiring your blood to live. I’m to stay with you and ensure your compulsion remains intact until you die.”

Barely processing the words, John sorted through them to find the bottom line. “You’re free?”

Sherlock nodded. “We’re free.”

“What about the vampires we attacked?”

“What about them? The council approved an orderly seizure and execution, not burning half my family’s property followed by a manhunt. Rucastle and the others voluntarily chased us, hazards and all. The moment we ran protocol dictates they should’ve returned here, reported our refusal to cooperate, and allowed the spellcrafters to find us.”

John shook his head, unable to speak. Jesus. He felt like a man stood in front of a firing squad, hearing the report of gunfire and finding that each and every bullet pointed at his heart had miraculously missed.

“Are you all right?” Sherlock asked.

He nodded unevenly.

“Good. Let’s get out of here.”

The rain was coming down harder as they returned to the town car. John felt no temptation to look back at the manor. As they slid into the back seat, Sherlock pointedly locked the door behind them.

“John,” he said, facing the window.

“Hmm?”

Sherlock turned, rather stiffly. “That vampire I found you with…”

“Clay?”

“Yes, Clay. Were you about to let him feed from you?”

“Maybe,” John answered darkly. If he hadn’t found Sherlock, it might have been his only opportunity. “It’s what they all deserve.”

Sherlock frowned. “No one feeds from you but me.”

“Obviously not, but I don’t see why I shouldn’t take my chance for payback-“

“I don’t care about the reason,” Sherlock interrupted huffily. His jaw flexed with unease. “Even if your blood were perfectly ordinary. No one but me, John.”

There was jealousy in his pale eyes. Plain, unmistakable, reptile-brain enviousness. The sight of it snapped John out of his vindictive mood. Sherlock Holmes had just barely avoided horrific punishment and possible death, and all he could feel was jealousy toward a man John had tried to assassinate.

“Okay,” John said, smirking.

“Why do you look so amused?” Sherlock complained petulantly.

“No reason.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and glanced out the window in annoyance.

Despite the ample leg room, the back seat proved a little cramped as John took it upon himself to clamber over onto Sherlock’s lap. His fingers were itching to touch again; surely Sherlock was feeling it too? But then Sherlock was the master of mind-body dissociation, and John wasn’t willing to wait for an invitation.

“It’s fine, okay?” he said, smoothing his hands under Sherlock’s suit jacket. Sherlock met his eyes and looped his arms around John’s waist. “Sometimes you just inadvertently remind me why I love you so much. It’s been a tough day.”

Sherlock snorted in derision and squeezed until they were pressed together, resting his chin against John’s shoulder.

“All right, it’s been a tough month.”

“Century,” Sherlock sighed.

“That too.” John held him there, bundled in his arms, savoring it. “It’s over now.”

Sherlock lifted his face. “It’s not over, John. Don't you see? It’s finally beginning.”

John had no answer but to kiss him, long and slow, pushing Sherlock into the backrest with the weight of his body. It was electrifying to kiss him, still, and deep down John hoped the feeling would never fade.

A sharp rap on the tinted window caught John’s attention. He turned his head and saw Mycroft waiting impatiently outside, hands folded over his umbrella. He knew what was going on in his car without even seeing inside.

“Sherlock,” John said, his voice a bit rough as the vampire sucked on a lobe of his ear. “Sherlock, your brother’s here.”

“Let him wait,” Sherlock rumbled against his throat.

“The sooner we get home, the sooner we can feed or fuck or whatever else you want to do,” John told him.

He pushed off but Sherlock’s arms stiffened, keeping John against him. “Why not both?” Sherlock mused. “I’ve always been a brilliant multi-tasker.”

John laughed as he brushed through Sherlock’s curls and kissed him once more for good measure. He glanced out the window at Mycroft, impatiently tapping his fingers on the hilt of his umbrella. “Let’s go home.”

“No, let’s go to Baker Street,” Sherlock corrected, pressing his head against John’s shoulder and contentedly closing his eyes. “I’m already home.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This marks the end of the main story. The next chapter is an epilogue from Sherlock’s POV, but it’s rather bittersweet so if you like where this has ended you needn’t read further.


	14. Epilogue

Sherlock swept down the hospital corridor at record speed, the human nurses turning to glance dumbly at the flaring hem of his coat as he passed. He’d long ago recognized sublime usefulness of dramatic imagery in distracting humans from his uncommon appearance. Remarkable changes in vampire-human relations had taken place in his two hundred and thirty-one years, but the ease of misdirection remained comfortingly the same.

Despite his haste, Sherlock fell to a dead stop when he reached the door marked 442. A new scratch marred the dull beige paint, obviously from a trolley, probably from when they had wheeled the equipment inside for yesterday’s scheduled echocardiogram. Sherlock had missed it in favor of other pressing business, now finished, that required his attention.

He turned the door handle slowly, for fear of potentially waking the room’s sole occupant, and perhaps, just partially, because he was so long overdue.

His worry disintegrated when a familiar calming rush bloomed in his chest, nearly drawing a gasp of relief after his extended period of separation. Sherlock shut the door behind him and was met by the curve of a well-remembered smile.

“Sherlock,” John said, his grin radiant beneath the oxygen tube lining his nose. “I was worried you wouldn’t come today.”

Amidst the beeping of the heart monitor and lines running rampant from his hospital bed, John looked as healthy as always: his blond hair barely touched with the first signs of grey, his skin flush with vibrancy, his river-blue eyes warm and alert. He’d appeared to be in his late thirties for the past seventy-four years, the timeless mask gifted by their binding, but inside that wonderful chest his organs were faltering with age. His scent reflected it, heavy metallic undertones instinctively warning Sherlock away. This was not a healthy human.

“Of course I came,” Sherlock said as he shed his coat. He took up John’s outstretched hand, their matching silver bands glinting together in the overhead lighting, and hated how his brain automatically calculated the relative loss in John's grip strength.. “I promised, didn’t I?”

Sherlock perfectly recalled the gathering John insisted they host for their seventieth wedding anniversary, only five months past. John had spent much of it resting in his easy chair and laughing along with everyone as if he were still the hale young human Sherlock had met all those years ago. He had been exceptionally tired that night, but seeing the joy bright in his eyes had made it all worthwhile. It was the last anniversary they would share, and they both knew it.

Marrying a human was illegal for his kind when John first proposed. It happened unexpectedly (although in retrospect, Sherlock sensed he should have seen it coming) one clear, starlit evening after they’d apprehended a serial killer who memorably dissolved his victims’ corpses in acid before dumping them. At the time Sherlock didn’t exactly believe in the institution of marriage, but even he had to admit that the timing was terribly romantic. John had knelt before him, still breathless from dive-tackling the suspect, the remnants of liquefied bodies staining their clothes, with flashing police lights and half of Lestrade’s unit in the backdrop. Any idiot could see marriage was important to John, which meant it immediately became important to Sherlock. What could he do but accept him?

With the combined adrenaline highs from solving the murders and the sudden proposal, Sherlock had expressed his excitement to John quite enthusiastically that night. Every time Sherlock spotted John openly limping around the flat the next day, the doctor would hide his grin and flush an endearing shade of pink that spread to the tips of his ears.

Mycroft got the bureaucracy sorted in time for the ceremony, of course. Their wedding was also the first public outing for his brother’s sired daughter, Anthea. There were four others members of the Holmes clan at last count, with Mycroft in the process of courting a fifth. Life, of a sort, had returned to the old family estate (not that they often visited; John grew unacceptably taciturn whenever they went back). Sherlock occasionally wondered if what he felt was genuine happiness for his elder brother.

He’d told John he would never sire another vampire, though his venom was now potent with maturity, nor take another human under his thrall. John asked him sometimes if he regretted not establishing a legacy. Sherlock always told him no. The only legacy he was interested in was the one he was creating with John.

Sherlock settled onto John’s bedside, stroking his husband’s palm as John went off on some silly story about one of his nurses. Sherlock only half listened, focusing instead on the way John’s face moved, his smile despite the pain Sherlock knew he was experiencing. How long would he have left to memorize everything?

John had stopped talking. “Sherlock?” he asked, suddenly concerned.

“Hm?” he replied, knowing his distraction must be obvious. Sherlock absorbed what detail he could from John, but his cheerful expression had faded.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. What were you saying?"

John sighed in that knowing way. “Come here,” he said as he patted the empty portion of his hospital bed.

Crawling up beside him, Sherlock took up John’s hand again and simply watched him.

“Tell me,” John gently urged. “What’s going on in there?”

Sherlock remained quiet as he considered how best to phrase what had been simmering in his mind every dark, lonely night these past weeks.

He hated the nighttime. It used to be because John left when it got dark, but John at least saw fit to leave his body behind. It was a relaxing presence despite its stillness and Sherlock could always wake him if needed (although that typically made John angry and was therefore ill-advised).

These days it was because the night brought a slew of uncomfortable thoughts. Thoughts he’d put off for a very long time.

“Tell me,” John said again.

"Do you think," Sherlock said, his voice emerging strangely tight. "Do you think if... as irrational and illogical as it might be... if there was somewhere we went after..."

John squeezed his hand tighter.

"...do you think there would be a place for something so unnatural?"

John’s face fell. "You've never been unnatural," he said, his voice overflowing with so much assurance that Sherlock almost believed it. "I've never known a bigger heart or a warmer soul in all my days. But I will tell you this: when it happens, if even the smallest fraction of myself is left intact, nothing in all creation could prevent me from finding you again."

Sherlock studied the signs in his face, in his eyes. "Nor I you, John," he said.

"Then it's settled. But don't worry so," John consoled, thumb brushing over Sherlock’s hand. "You've all those stocks, remember?"

"I know. I..." Sherlock looked at him.

John recognized the guilt for what it was. Concern brought his brows together, his blue eyes puzzled.

"I had it destroyed," Sherlock said quietly.

He blinked slowly. Once, then twice. "You... what?"

"I destroyed it, John."

John shut his eyes. Hundreds of pints of his blood, carefully collected and stored and now, all gone. His little project had spanned decades. Sherlock pretended he didn't know about it until John finally decided to tell him. He’d always disapproved, but never interfered. If his vampirism had taught him anything, it was patience. It was so much easier to wait and erase John’s work when he couldn't stop it.

Too tired for anger or outrage, John refrained from tensing as he would in the past. Instead, he opened his eyes. "It would've lasted you years," he whispered.

"I don't need years. Years, I've had in abundance." Sherlock drew in close, pressing his forehead to John's shoulder. "I need _you_."

He felt John nodding against him. He understood. Deep down, subconsciously, John knew it had been a long shot. “When did you last drink?” John asked softly.

“I’m fine.”

“Sherlock."

"I haven't been thirsty."

John swallowed. "You never once used the stores, did you? Was it… was it when you last drank from me?”

He didn’t answer.

“That was nearly five weeks ago,” John said.

Sherlock reluctantly squeezed his hand in confirmation. It was difficult, at first, to be near healthy humans. His desire to feed had faded, though, as dehydration set in. He barely felt it anymore.

John took a long, uneven breath. “Does Mycroft know?”

“I spent this morning with him,” Sherlock said. “That’s why I was delayed.”

“Is he all right?”

No, he wasn’t. Mycroft had been stoic and understanding, but never all right. “He wanted to know if I forgave him. He’s never done that before. Asked directly for forgiveness,” Sherlock said. “For what he did. For everything.”

“What did you say?”

Sherlock pressed a kiss to John’s forehead and intertwined their fingers. What did one say to the man who had both stolen and given everything? “I told him as far as I'm concerned, there is no debt between us.”

John successfully blinked backed the wetness overtaking his eyes. “I’m glad to hear that,” he replied, and his voice barely wavered. “And are you all right?”

John had had decades to spill his tears about what was to come. Sherlock endured the outbursts every once in a while, when the weight of it became too much for John to bear and he needed reassurance that this was what Sherlock wanted. They’d talked about it, and fought about it, and even joked about it on days of particularly dark humor. As much as John reacted to it, though, Sherlock had always expected him to become the same weepy mess when the time finally arrived.

What Sherlock hadn’t anticipated was the knot of heat rising in his own throat, nor the steady control John was now displaying.

“Sherlock, love, are you all right?” John asked gently, a finger grazing Sherlock’s cheek.

“No,” he admitted after a time. “I don’t think I am.”

By the twitch of his hands, John wanted to hold him very badly, but he was tired and hooked up to far too many machines. Instead he nodded slowly, in sequence, as he searched for words Sherlock desperately wished to hear.

“I’ve never thought myself a gifted man,” John said. “Competent, perhaps, but only by way of hard work. I am not gifted, not like you.”

“John-“

“Please, Sherlock, just listen. I’ve come to understand the error of my thinking. _You_ are my gift. Together, there is nothing we cannot do. We have been tied together, you and I, from the very moment we met. Deeper than a binding spell, stronger than I thought possible. Where you go, I will always follow. Always.”

“It’s not you following me, this time,” Sherlock replied.

John pressed Sherlock’s hand to his chest, weakened rhythm of his heart reverberating through them both. “I know, Sherlock. I know. Just trust. Trust that I’ll find you.”

John. Caretaker and killer, doctor and soldier. If anyone could manage the impossible, if Sherlock could trust in anyone, it was John.

And God help him, he did.

He kissed John gently to inform him, everything that needed saying passed through one moment of contact. John was smiling and blinking tiredly as they parted, and Sherlock regretted that he had wasted John’s precious limited energy on a conversation that in all consideration should’ve been unnecessary. 

“Go to sleep, John,” Sherlock said, hand gently threading into John’s hair.

“You needn’t stay. I know how you hate it when I go,” John murmured as his eyes slipped closed.

Sherlock shook his head. “I’ll be here. It's all sorted. I'm not leaving anymore.”

John hummed. “But I wouldn’t want you to feel lonely.”

“I won’t be,” Sherlock whispered to him. He watched as John fell into a peaceful doze. “Before you know it, I’ll be there with you again.”

The steady tones of John’s heart monitor and the gentle caress of their unbroken bond soon accompanied Sherlock into his own slumber, drifting to unburdened sleep with John’s guiding hand clutched in his own and promises of _forever_ and _always_ silent beneath his breath.

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. This was a much longer journey than I first expected! It may sound ridiculous, but I initially thought this fic would end at around 25k words or so. It was supposed to be a "short" pet project before I tried a "long" story. Then it grew a bit. And grew some more. 
> 
> I’d really like to thank everyone for the constant encouragement. I know I kept people waiting at various points. There were some challenging days, but you all kept me motivated. Knowing that someone - anyone - was anticipating what would come next... it meant a lot. You're the reason it's finished. 
> 
> A great big THANK YOU needs to go out to [hedgehogandotter](http://hedgehogandotter.tumblr.com/), the beta who voluntarily waded into this project. Her help and support has been nothing less than monumental.
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://antietamfalls.tumblr.com/)


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